


My Whiskey Smells of Oranges

by AnnaNSmith



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Feels, Fate & Destiny, Friends to Lovers, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, High School, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Mickey Milkovich/Original Male Character(s), Psychological Trauma, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Special Abilities, Violence, canon adjacent, good brother iggy, high school romance, one scene at the beginning, study partners
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 147,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaNSmith/pseuds/AnnaNSmith
Summary: Soulmate AU (canon adjacent). Some things are different, some things are jumbled, and some things will always stay the same no matter how two South Side teenage boys meet. Mickey is fucked for life or at least that is what he always believed. Trying to keep a part of himself secret from everyone but especially his dad, he gets blackmailed by his school's principal to enter the Student Mentoring Student program. As if that wasn't already a huge shitshow, a global freak event binds Mickey to a certain freckled ginger. Ah, and he has special abilities now too. Has Mickey already mentioned how much of a clusterfuck his life has turned into?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 191
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProstheticLoVe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProstheticLoVe/gifts).



> Let me start by saying, this is the biggest fucking thing I ever wrote. It's a canon adjacent alternative beginning in a soulmate setting. There are canon elements that I either adapted as they were, adjusted, or completely changed at times. All in order for our favorite boys to fall in love once more. Slowly. And I mean SLOWLY. Picture two love turtles spotting each other in the distance and gradually making their way to each other. I will prepare a love turtle o' meter for your reference.
> 
> This fic is finished. It just needs a fuckton of editing which is why I will post it gradually.
> 
> Lastly, this title is for ProstheticLove, my personal cheerleader. I can't tell you how much I enjoy our talks and how motivating I found your encouraging words while writing this piece. I hope this is a fic you might enjoy reading! Having said that, it's far too long to gift to somebody and expect them to read it. You can keep it as a nicely wrapped gift on your shelf to simply look at.

The perfect breeze blows by, carrying away the smoke he exhales. It’s cool and featherlight and caresses his sun kissed skin in just the right way, almost comfortingly. It’s as if the sun and wind agreed to work in perfect harmony today, bathing Chicago in the warm gold, soothing its residents with the airy breezes blowing along. Neither too hot, nor too chilly. The perfect day. The perfect day to which the week seemed to have been gradually building up. Disbanding last weeks rainy cloud banks only to steadily let the sun rays heat up the pavements and buildings, to softly cajole the trees and flowers to bloom. To make this day utterly tranquil and beautiful.

Mickey flips the cigarette butt away, roughly in the direction of the other nine cigarettes he’s already smoked since sitting down. Immediately his mouth and fingers feel unoccupied, making him long for the next smoke. He exhales frustrated and bites the corner of his lower lip. His eyes flicker from his fumbling fingers over to the baseball field in front of him and then back down to his lap. He ignores the phone buzzing in his pocket and kind of wishes he had turned it off before coming here. Feels like he can’t escape the constant ringing and the reminder that he is supposed to be somewhere else right now. To be fair he’s been in a different place for the past four years, the call now is just demanding him back. And for many reasons he doesn’t want to return, but there is only one reason why he has to do it: he doesn’t have a choice. He feels like being held at gunpoint and forced to jump down a cliff, desperately trying to figure a way out of the situation, but knowing no matter how many scenarios you can think of none of them will save you. While he is in no way a particularly optimistic person, he wouldn’t say he’s overly negative either. Rather growing up in the South Side has given him a realistic view on life. If that tended to lean more into the negative, then that’s just the bitter pill everyone’s got to swallow. Sooner rather than later. So by all means, he wouldn’t say he is negative, but he doesn’t really see his life turning roses and butterflies unexpectedly. When he thinks about the foreseeable future, the only thing he realistically can see himself doing is treading water at best. And that prospect makes him swallow hard.

He’s sitting on a small storage shed, about three minutes from the main school building at the far end of the school grounds, close by to the bleachers. His left leg dangles from the rooftop, the right perched up so he can lean his arm against it. Mickey found this old, abandoned storage shed the school seemed to have used at some point for storing janitorial equipment needed for maintaining the outdoor premises last year when he was chasing a junior he owed a beating. The guy tried to keep out of his sight by hiding behind the shed and Mickey almost missed him if it hadn’t been for the disturbed gravel leaving a track to the school’s fence behind it. In the end it made an ideal spot to beat the guy away from prying eyes, until he finally relented and paid up the money he owed Mickey for the coke he had fronted him. Afterward he just wanted to check if he could use the location to run his business from there, but ended up loving the quiet and secluded place and kept it a secret. By climbing the school fence it’s possible to scale the storage’s back wall and heave oneself up on the roof and from there it’s just an unobstructed view to the school’s baseball field and the bleachers. Nobody seems to know about this spot and so Mickey likes to come here when he skips class and doesn’t have anything better to do. It’s a small, weathered but quiet spot and for some reason he feels inexplicably at peace when he comes here.

Usually. Today he knows he’s just stalling by coming here. Is drawing the inevitable out. It’s been almost two hours since school is out and he is still sitting here, watching the school’s baseball team go through their afternoon drills. He glances to the school gate to his far right, inhaling deeply through his nose only to turn away and exhale his breath in a burst of a sigh.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, biting at his lip again.

He reaches for his pack of cigarettes, sighing once more when he sees he’s only got one more cigarette left. Placing it between his lips, he lights it, relishing in the poisonous smoke filling his lungs. The empty pack crumbles in his fist and he tosses it haphazardly from the roof and then rests his forehead against his arm, closing his eyes. He knew there was no avoiding it. Eventually it was going to happen and he isn’t even surprised it was happening earlier than planned. But knowing what’s coming and actually having to deal with it in the end are still two different monsters altogether. In some way it might be for the best, he knows he was getting too comfortable with the new status quo, fearing he might not be able to adjust back to when the time came. Comfortable can make one sloppy and reckless and Mickey absolutely cannot afford slipping up.

The past four years had been a reprieve. By far not without the usual worry and anxiety, but a respite for certain. The familiar edge returned with a vengeance about six months ago. Harsher than ever, leaving him tense and strung-out ever since. He started to prepare himself mentally, building his guard back up again, and focused on making sure to cover his tracks. Given what happened four years ago he needs to make certain he is bulletproof. Part of him is pissed off. Angry at the fact that it seems he is utterly impotent to make any difference. That the only course he knows he can take is survival. As dramatic as that sounds, it feels like it to Mickey. Feels like he has to gear up, protect himself, stay focused. He has to be perfect, can’t allow any mistakes. And he just sighs, thinking about these past few years where it actually felt like he could breathe. Where he was the sole governor of his own life. Being able to make choices without the phantom feeling of a tight grip around his neck. Quiet frankly it hadn’t been like this four years ago, but it is so now. And he just has to cope and endure and somehow make it out of this. He steels himself and inhales the last of his cigarette, blows out the smoke, and with it lets go of the life he’s lived for the last four years.

LT ->\------------- ♡ -------------<\- LT

“Where the fuck have you been?” Iggy asks from the front porch steps when he sees Mickey walking up to the curb.

“Fuck you is where I’ve been,” Mickey retorts annoyed and climbs up the stairs.

“I called you five times. Help me set this up, asshole. Pops will be home any minute,” Iggy says while trying to tie the welcome home banner over the front entrance.

Mickey can already see the crates of beer and other booze stacked on the porch and living room, ready to be consumed by the rowdiest bunch of fuck-ups this neighborhood has to offer. Must have fallen off a truck, Mickey thinks. He relents and helps Iggy place the banner, if somewhat crookedly. It’s a torn piece of shit that has been used too many times in his lifetime, but it’s tradition to hang it whenever Terry is being released from prison. And Terry likes it. Expects to have a huge fuss made when he is being released from incarceration and comes home. Wants to party with his family and friends, drink himself until he’s shitfaced, maybe sniff some blow, definitely try to lift a skirt or two, and cockily ride the edge of parole stipulations on his first night of regained freedom.

The first family friends arrive, loudly bellowing their excitement and roughly greeting Mickey and Iggy, before heading inside and starting to raid the liquor stash. Mickey is about to open a beer for himself, longing for some alcohol to settle his nerves, when Colin drives up to the house, Dad and a couple of his uncles in tow.

“Pops!” Iggy hollers and jumps down the front steps, eagerly hugging him, welcoming him home.

The sight of his dad in front of him has Mickey’s stomach lurch uncomfortably. While he dutifully went to visit his father in prison on occasion, it’s the first time in four years he actually sees him out of hand cuffs or without the obstruction of glass in between them. In fact, Terry is almost standing at the exact same spot he saw him last before he was arrested, where he was cowering under his hateful stare.

He swallows and then kicks himself to get with the program, puts on a smile, and trots down the steps toward his father.

“Dad! About time you got home!” He says laughing and pulls him into his arms.

“Mickey! Heard you held down the fort while I was gone. Always knew you had the intuition of an entrepreneur! Didn’t I always say that?” Terry bellows amused, looking at his friends expectantly who laugh and respond in agreement. “You’ve been keeping the drugs in circulation? Those black monkeys giving ya any problems?”

“No, Dad, school is my turf. Ain’t nobody messin’ with me there,” Mickey replies proudly.

“That’s my son!” Terry states satisfied and throws his arm over Mickey’s shoulder, pulling him along, excited to head inside. “Tonight we’re going to CELEBRATE!”

Everyone yells and cheers to that. They start playing the music, blasting it so loudly absolutely everyone in the neighborhood knows it’s the day Terry Milkovich has arrived back home, and watch how Terry’s friends gradually trickle in, ready to waste away the night. In spite of Terry’s gruff personality, or maybe because of it, he is incredibly popular. Always the center of attention. Leading drug busts and weapon deals, gathering the neighborhood thugs to drive away child molesters, or plainly establishing the hierarchy around these parts of South Side, where he isn’t the one you should cross unless you’re ready for the beating of your lifetime. He’s kind of iconic; his name infamous around South Side. The whole family actually. Terry build a Milkovich reputation that is based on everyone in the family. Mickey would like to meet somebody living here who hasn’t actually heard about the Milkoviches. He’s proud of it; always has and still is.

Only, when he looks in the mirror nowadays he isn’t quite sure he’s earned it. Sees less and less the resemblance to his father and the deepest of pits forms in his stomach at the thought that somebody else might see it too. He doesn’t know where things started to change. He can’t remember ever making a conscious choice to be anything else than what a Milkovich is supposed to be. But for some reason he’s been noticing that something isn’t quiet right with him ever since he was about ten. When he started to realize he can’t quiet imitate Terry anymore. When he slowly became aware that he doesn’t quiet feel the way he should around Terry. After all these years he can’t say he isn’t still very much confused, however, he did come to the realization that he is fucked up in a way. But he also knows short of controlling it, this isn’t something that is going away. Not for a lack of trying though. In no way is he accepting that, but contradictorily he’s also not denying it. At least to himself.

Half of the fucking neighborhood is gathered inside his house and the front lawn, partying like there is no tomorrow. He’d prefer holing himself inside his room and just ignore everyone, but it’s not like he can just hide away from a Milkovich party, especially one in honor of his dad. On top of that he really needs to figure out where Terry stands. Has to make certain his father isn’t thinking about four years ago and dig deeper into the events, poking around the mess in which Mickey had found himself. It’s already hard enough to grasp the extent of that particular shitshow, do damage control when he doesn’t know what his father was thinking all this time in prison. It had taken him three weeks after Terry’s arrest to find the balls to visit him in jail, too afraid to face him. He had fed him some bullshit excuse on why he hadn’t visited earlier, but luckily Terry had been arrested so many times in his lifetime that it wasn’t particularly unusual for him or his siblings to drag their feet a little. It’s a common occurrence; the Milkoviches don’t even blink anymore when somebody in their family gets arrested. They go in and out of prison or juvie so often, were they to start visiting everyone each time on a regular basis, the bus fare alone would make them bankrupt. If they actually bothered to pay for shit like that. But still, Mickey had been nervous, so incredibly nervous to speak to his father, he had paced for two hours in front of the barbed walls before he found the courage to head inside. His father had been taciturn at best during visitation and to this day Mickey doesn’t know if it had anything to do with him being suspicious of him. The times he had seen him afterward seemed to show Terry back to his usual self. Mickey had thought that Terry treated him the same. His brothers or uncles never said anything to him either, indicating his father hadn’t talked to them about Mickey, sharing any notion of mistrust. But he was so fucking paranoid every time he’d go to visit Terry, that he didn’t really trust his own judgment. The conundrum now is that Mickey needs to feel him out, where he stands, if he’s still thinking about back then, and has to figure out how he has to act around him accordingly, but if Terry does actually have any doubts then poking around might just confirm his suspicions.

So while he wants to be anywhere else right now, he stays in the front and center of the party, listens to his dad share his latest prison anecdotes, laughs and chimes in at the right times, jokes and curses around when appropriate, and drinks alongside his family, if deceivingly little, so as to stay in full command of his faculties. And by the time it’s 6:30 in the morning and most guests have stumbled home or have passed out, he feels utterly exhausted, little having to do with the booze and lack of sleep. His father is snoring on the couch, beer bottle still clutched inside his fist, but otherwise completely knocked out. Some people he doesn’t even know have crashed in his room and Mickey just wants to fucking kick their asses out of there. He cracks his knuckles and blows out his breath through his nose in frustration, but instead of succumbing to the urge to violently scare them out, he just grabs his jacket, retrieves a small package from his drawers, and then heads outside. Fuck them, fuck everyone, he thinks.

While he goes to school, he doesn’t actually go to class. He spends the morning at his spot on the rooftop sleeping until lunch time when his stomach begins to grumble in protest. On his way to the cafeteria he’s being visibly avoided. Not unusual, but he supposes today he is giving off an especially bad vibe of the _come closer and you’ll fucking die_ persuasion. Good, he thinks. He is in no fucking mood to deal with anyone. The cafeteria is almost empty, seeing as the bells have already introduced next period and while that means only the leftover scraps are remaining, he doesn’t have to endure the usual crowd. He buys the corner piece of today’s lasagna, foregoes the side salad, and sneaks a canned coke and chocolate chip cookie into his jacket pocket. When he turns around to look for a place to sit he sees a kid staring, obviously having witnessed his little pocket trick. He stares at him utterly unimpressed, annoyed even.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Mickey barks out as he steps closer to the table row.

“Do you have some kind of compulsion to steal whenever the opportunity presents?” The guy actually dares to respond, finishing his apple unperturbed. “There’s therapy for that.”

“Do you wanna die?” Mickey retorts.

It’s been a while since he’s had somebody challenge him and the guy doesn’t even seem the slightest bit intimidated by him. Sure, he might be a few inches taller than him, but he’s younger and scrawny. Mickey would be impressed if he weren’t so pissed.

“And I thought our store was special,” he keeps on talking as he gets up with his empty tray, ignoring Mickey’s threat.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Mickey asks incredulously when the guy passes by. He feels the cold skin brush his arm.

“Maybe you should start remembering the faces you are stealing from. You never know who takes this shit seriously. But I guess in your case, that would be hard to keep track of,” the red-head replies and parts with a sarcastic smile.

“Yeah, you better walk away, Red! Make fucking sure we don’t cross paths again or you’re dead!” Mickey shouts after him, watching him vanish into the hallway. He wonders what the fuck that was about and heatedly throws his tray on the table, sitting down to eat.

After lunch he walks down the hall, ignores his actual locker in favor of his second locker around the corner. Around two years ago he scared a freshman into giving up his locker when he spotted it’s basically the perfect spot to stash the shit at which he doesn’t want anyone to accidentally have a glimpse. It’s secluded, the hall is ending in a dead end, and only half the lights are working. It’s perfect to sneak contraband in and out. He rotates the combination into the lock and opens it. There is so much illegal shit in the locker, blindly pick any one item out of it, he would get suspended if not expelled for it. Not to mention the charges he’d face for the gun he brought to school and is currently buried in the back. He quickly glances over his shoulder to make sure he is still alone and then pulls out the little package he brought from home and tosses it in the locker. Quickly, he rips it open and pulls one of the white small envelopes stacked neatly next to each other out of it and hides it inside his jacket pocket. Then he rummages around inside his belongings until he finally finds and retrieves a key.

He is about to close the locker when he halts in his tracks. Mickey glances over his shoulder another three times before he bites his lip and reaches inside to grab a pack of lube and a condom, hurriedly burying it inside his front pocket.

Shutting the locker closed, he makes his way over to the other wing, passes the admission’s office and the library, and stops in front of a tiny office. Quickly, he does a mental check, thinking back to earlier when he was heading to the cafeteria and crossed the school’s parking lot, remembering a certain spot being empty, same as it had been for the last four weeks. He fishes out the key and unlocks the small, dusty office, closing the door swiftly behind him. It’s a crappy, ridiculously tiny room, barely able to fit a desk and a book case inside. The top hung window scarcely lets any light inside and the whole space practically smells like dust and cobwebs. Welcome to the guidance counselor’s office. Good that nobody actually needs a guidance counselor at this school. No wonder Mrs. Bradsbury has abandoned her post. Mickey would shoot himself, if he had to spend every day here. Though, Mickey suspects, Mrs. Bradsbury’s absence has less to do with this gloomy pit of misery and despair and more to do with the fact a sophomore kept on leaving her dead rodents on her windshield, all including creepy stalker notes. Tough luck, Mickey thinks. Not the worst a teacher at this school had to find at their car, but not particularly for the faint of the heart either.

He leans against the desk and lights a cigarette, checking his phone for the time. It’s 2pm to the dot and he begins to think that maybe this time the person he is waiting for will be late for once when the door opens and a pale, lean brunette enters right on time.

“Man, you ever late for something?” Mickey scoffs.

He is not complaining. He can appreciate punctuality when it comes to business, but this straight A student has never once been late in the one and a half years he’s been dealing with him.

Scott just shrugs noncommittally. He’s also never spoken much in the time he’s known him. Which, again, something Mickey can appreciate. The guy is to the point, doesn’t speak much, is good for his money, knows to keep things inconspicuous, and above else is even more interested than Mickey in staying under the radar, to the point he might just have developed a paranoid tendency. He’s only ever contacting Mickey with a burner phone, insists on messaging in code whenever they schedule a meet, and never uses his or Mickey’s name for fear somebody figures out they know each other. Seeing as Mickey’s own life is a carefully constructed show of smoke and mirrors, he can’t fault the guy. In fact, he actually feels for him. He might even go so far as to say he likes him. Yes, he’s a nerd, but to everyone who bothers to look at him a bit more closely it’s clear as day he doesn’t particularly give a fuck about school. The only reason he’s got all straight As on his report card is because he has no choice. His father is ex-military and a drunk and has beaten any form of insubordination out of him years ago. The guy has had more broken bones than Mickey and Mickey didn’t exactly grow up with a mellow father himself. He’s seen him sporting so many shiners and bruises since they were little and were still living on the same street, the sum exceeds his and his siblings tally combined.

It’s no wonder he’s obsessively cautious about anybody seeing him like this: bend over the desk and shakily snorting some blow. He’d be a dead man, if his father found out.

Scott sniffs, letting out the softest of moans when he straightens up again.

“Intervals are getting a bit shorter between our meets lately, don’t you think?” Mickey asks, eyeing him from his peripheral, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette.

“I’ve got the money,” he says quietly, reaching inside his pants pockets to pull out a bundle of cash.

“Not what I meant,” Mickey replies, licking the inside of his cheek, but doesn’t further elaborate and just takes the bills. If Scott wants to snort himself into oblivion, who is Mickey to judge? Reality seems too harsh of an alternative for Scott to live through sober. Not like he can’t relate to that. He just genuinely hopes Scott can keep it together. There goes too much into maintaining a life like theirs. Too easy to slip up somewhere.

Scott looks like he’s lost a bit of weight lately, sports these dark circles under his eyes, has his skin stretch taut over his knuckles and cheek bones. But there is still the subtle definition of muscles showing under his short sleeves, the protruding veins lining his skin, and the hard set of his jawline.

Mickey licks his lips unconsciously and Scott catches him staring. They look at each other silently and Mickey swallows, knows that he should avert his gaze. Against his better judgment he just keeps on staring and raises his eyebrow expectantly. He flicks his cigarette butt into the corner when Scott closes the distance between them and steps between his legs. Scott pulls Mickey against himself, holds him by the hips and grinds their fabric clad crotches together. Mickey feels the hard line underneath the pants and eagerly rubs his own excited dick against it.

One last time, Mickey thinks. He can give in one last time before ending this side of their relationship. He’s promised himself he wouldn’t do this anymore once his father was released from prison, cutting this part of his life out for good. But Scott is one of the few people he actually allows to indulge him in this particular predilection of his. Allows him and even wants him to push him around and bend him over the desk like this. To grind his hard dick against his ass, to pull his pants and boxers down, to let lubed up fingers push through the tight ring, and stretch him from the inside. To let himself get fucked in the ass, because for some fucked up reason there is just no better feeling than a dick shoved up his ass. For some unfathomable reason he gets rock hard and shoots his nuts off whenever he bottoms for a guy. It’s just not quite the same when it’s the other way around and he can barely get it up when it’s a chick he fucks. He’s not gay. He doesn’t like men. He just has fucked up preferences for a guy when it comes to sex. And he rarely gets to indulge in his favorite, because there is hardly anyone he can trust enough to keep his secret. Bad enough he fucks guys occasionally, but actually getting pounded like this? Hard and fast like some faggot. Nobody can ever find out. And, well, Scott is the most closeted gay he knows. He’d be as dead as Mickey, if their fathers found out.

One last time. He wants this for one last time. It makes him resentful and angry to think he has to give this up. He enjoys fucking as much as any other teenager; there is nothing that feels nearly as good as this. Better than any drug in his opinion. And yet he isn’t allowed to indulge in this, because it’s fucked up and can get him into serious trouble. He fucking hates feeling caged in like this, not being able to freely do what he wants. Hates resenting the fact that it feels this good doing what he likes. Hates feeling this conflicted every time. He just wants to stop having to keep thinking. And he just wants there to be no consequences to his actions.

He just wants to be himself without it being wrong.

Mickey groans between heavy breaths, reaching for his dick. He strokes himself in a steady pace, feeling the familiar build up pool of pleasure simmering within and electrifying the nerves in his lower region. Another thing he likes about Scott: the sex is about as impersonal as it gets. There is no unnecessary touching, no talking, and definitely no damn kissing. The guy fucks him fast and hard, chasing his own orgasm without much thought about Mickey’s. And Mickey likes it this way. He doesn’t want another guy’s hand on his dick, he doesn’t want to be in their thoughts more than is necessarily needed, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be intimate. He tries not to think about the fact that this will be his last time. That he has to give up something that was so hard to establish. Fuck, he just wants to enjoy this and burn it into his memories.

His breathing becomes harsher and the pace on his dick faster and he is so fucking close to letting go, knows Scott will finish soon too, when, suddenly, the door opens behind them and Principal Allen walks in. They jump off each other as if they’d been burnt, pulling desperately their pants up to cover themselves. Horrified, they stare at Principal Allen standing in the door.

“Can’t say I expected that particular picture to walk in on,” he muses out loud, stepping closer.

His eyes wander over the collection of smoked cigarette butts in the corner of the room to the desk with the envelope where Mickey had stashed the little pack of coke in and sees the remnants of white powder. He looks back over to them. First at Mickey and then as if he had already expected it, settles on Scott’s glassy eyes. Not that his twitching wasn’t already a dead giveaway that he’s coked up like shit.

“This, on the other hand,” he says and holds up the pack of coke. “Not a surprise.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Mickey, you’re first,” Principal Allen says with a sigh and bobs his head toward his office. He turns to his assistant and gestures toward Scott who has taken a seat opposite to the door. “Keep an eye on this one, Ben.”

Mickey brushes past Principal Allen when he holds the door open for him, his mind racing with thoughts a million miles per minute. He can’t believe he was fucking caught. Nobody ever went into the guidance counselor's office; nobody besides Mrs. Bradsbury, and Mickey had been careful to track her attendance. Not even the janitors or cleaning crew ever bothered to check the room. The hall is sparsely visited in the afternoon as nobody really gives a shit about the school library and the admissions office is closed after 12pm. Mickey doesn’t understand why anyone would venture this far as nothing else is located down that hall, much less why the damn principal would actually enter the guidance counselor’s office. He is so fucking fucked. He can’t believe he let this happen. He’s dead. If this leaks out and makes its way to his father, he’ll be hung by his balls first.

With anxious energy he paces around the middle of the office, his fist clenching and forcefully relaxing in a repetitive pattern. Principal Allen calmly strides past him to sit down in his chair, his placid attitude freaking Mickey out. He unlocks his computer and clicks around, typing something in here and there for about five minutes and Mickey doesn’t fucking understand what’s going on.

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but you better-” Mickey starts barking, stepping forward.

“Let me stop you right there. We both know there is no way you can possibly spin what I saw into anything else than what it was. You were caught having sex in the guidance counselor’s office. With another male student. So, let’s just skip right past the denial and ludicrous excuses, shall we?” Principal Allen cuts him off, double clicks on something on his computer, and then leans back in his chair, directing his attention to Mickey.

“Fine, let’s head straight to the murder threats then,” Mickey shoots back. He is going for broke, if he can’t talk his way out of this, then he will have to force his way out. “You tell anyone about what you saw and I will kill you!”

In fact, Mickey is already thinking about all the ways he could get rid of him. He could shoot him in the head and dump him in the river; cut off his hands and pull out his teeth so nobody can identify him. His Uncle Joe works at the foundry. He’ll dump the teeth into the chrome plating vat and it’s done. Quiet frankly, he isn’t sure he could let him live knowing what he does even if he promised not to utter a word about what he saw. The problem is while Principal Allen’s assistant doesn’t know why Mickey is here, he’s seen him having a private talk with him and if he were to show up dead in the coming days, surely the police would quickly come knocking on his door. He is a Milkovich for fuck’s sake. With his reputation and priors, he’d be an obvious suspect. Maybe he can asks his brothers on how to make it look like an accident. They wouldn’t ask too many questions either.

Principal Allen huffs amused, brushing his fingers through his beard, looking as if he’s entertained by his own private thoughts.

“The fuck is so funny? If you think I’m not serious, you better think again! I will carve that damn smirk off your face and gut you so deep you can taste your own fucking stomach fluids!” Mickey threatens and he’s surprised by his own intensity. He knows in that moment that he would do it. This is it, the make or break point of his life and he’s got to do everything he has to now to come out of it unscathed. He’s been pushed to the point he’s always dreaded and desperately tried to avoid, but now that he’s here all he can do is barrel forward and bring everything down that stands in his path, no matter the consequences.

“You really live up to your name,” Principal Allen replies wearily. He sighs and then turns to his computer again, reading from a file. “Constant assault on other students, possession of illegal contraband, willful damage to property, arson… And the occasional threat to the teaching staff,” he adds, turning around to Mickey, gesturing with his hand to the situation at hand.

The arson allegation is complete bullshit to Mickey. One day he had had a smoke on school grounds and the embers of the remaining cigarette butt had set the contents of a trash can on fire. A very small fire. The whole incident had been completely pulled out of proportion back then. Not that he cared that he had been suspended for two weeks because of it.

“Yeah, I do and it should tell you how serious I am,” Mickey responds, inhaling deeply through his nose and starts to pace around again.

“Sit down, Mickey,” Principal Allen replies simply.

For some fucking reason, nobody seems to take his threats seriously today. Did he lose all his intimidation prowess over night? Mickey does not understand what the fuck is going on. Angrily he marches toward the desk and kicks the chair away.

“Shut the fuck up! This is what’s going to happen now! You will keep your damn mouth shut about earlier or I will pay a little visit to your house at night and pull my clip into your sleeping face. And you better hope your wife doesn’t get in the way or she’ll have to pay for your mistake as well,” Mickey barks out, leaning over the desk. Even he wouldn’t hurt an innocent woman, but Principal Allen doesn’t need to know that.

There’s a knock on the door and the assistant enters, visibly concerned by the ruckus he must have heard.

“Everything all right, Pete?” He asks, his gaze flitting between Principal Allen and Mickey.

“Everything is fine,” Principal Allen answers relaxed and dismisses him with an off-hand gesture.

“Are you sure?” He asks again, eyeing the knocked over chair worriedly.

“All good, Ben. Go back,” Principal Allen replies calmly, smiling reassuringly and watches Ben leave before he turns his attention back to Mickey.

“Just for the record, I don’t have a wife, nor any children. There’s not much you can threaten me with, so just stop already.”

He watches him for a moment, his head resting lazily on his left hand which is propped up on the desk, clearly debating something silently in his mind. Brushing his finger over his chin, he slowly straightens and reaches for his desk drawer. He pulls out one of these pill boxes for the entire week and grabs a bottle of water, pouring himself a glass. He empties one partition into his palm and Mickey can see at least half a dozen different pills.

“Hate these. Never could take more than one at once,” he states conversationally, picking one to flush down with water. “But I believe it’s a good analogy to life. You find yourself confronted and boxed in by difficult situations, the best you can do is tackle them one by one. Try to take on too much at once and you might just choke. Wouldn’t you agree?” He asks, taking another of his pills and Mickey isn’t certain if this is a rhetorical question or what he is supposed to reply to that. He must see that Mickey isn’t particularly fond of these types of conversations and switches tracks again, turning toward Mickey, for the first time looking like he is taking this entire situation seriously. “Now, here is what I am required to do. I have to conduct an investigation and make a judgment on how to penalize you. This can range from suspension to outright expulsion.”

“Yeah, whatever. Let me save you a step, I’ll leave. You won’t ever see me again in this fucking dump,” Mickey says pissed. It’s not like he ever cared about school.

“What about Scott?” Principal Allen asks curiously.

“What about him? Fuck do I care what happens to him,” Mickey retorts callously.

Principal Allen seems to file that away for himself with whatever impression he had landed on based on Mickey’s answer.

“Be that as it may, I believe the situation is by far not as simple as you want it to be,” he goes on, swallowing another of his pills. “Let’s skip through the investigation part. Scott obviously consumed cocaine on school grounds, you will argue you didn’t deal him any and I won’t have any evidence to the contrary as I believe Scott won’t sell you out. A locker inspection won’t find anything as I’m sure you’re smart enough to keep your illegal goods hidden away somewhere else,” he outlines, but then pauses to narrow his eyes at Mickey. “Right?”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but obviously neither denies nor admits to anything. Principal Allen takes that as affirmation and continues.

“Brushing over the little misdemeanors, such as skipping class, breaking into a restricted area, and smoking on school grounds, that leaves us with inappropriate sexual relations on your part. Three week suspension would suffice I believe? That’s the usual penalty your sister received whenever she got caught,” he muses out loud and Mickey doesn’t understand what the fucking point to all of this is. “Now, Scott is a whole different kind of story. Anything short of expulsion will be unacceptable.”

“So?” Mickey asks annoyed, raising his eyebrow challenging.

“I can skim over a suspension report. Leave out certain trivialities, such as details to what was done specifically, names of other people involved,” he pauses for clear emphasis. “Even the matter of their gender.”

Mickey’s eyes shoot up at that. He nervously brushes his fingers over his lips.

“What about an expulsion report?” He asks, his eyes flitting between the principal and the ground.

Principal Allen inhales deeply and then weakly shakes his head. Mickey exhales frustrated, shaking his own head angrily and turns around to pace on the spot.

“You can’t fucking do that!” Mickey says and his voice has audibly lost some of its hostility, the fear having crept into it instead.

“I am obligated to,” Principal Allen simply replies.

“You- You don’t understand. You just can’t write about-” Mickey exhales through his nose, biting his lip.

Principal Allen watches Mickey intently as he paces a hole into his floor. He gets up and walks over, picking up the chair and setting it upright again.

“Sit down, Mickey,” he says again and walks back behind the desk to sit down himself.

Reluctantly, but seeing no point in being defiant about this, he decides to give in and plops down on the chair. But he doesn’t meet Principal Allen’s eyes. Instead he starts biting his nails, his mind already deliberating what he will have to do after this talk is over and the inevitable conclusion has been drawn. Killing Principal Allen seems a bad idea in so many regards and while he doesn’t rule the option out, he thinks it might be time to consider other alternatives.

“It goes without saying, that report would end up in a number of people’s hands, including Scott’s father’s. From the previous visit by a social worker assigned to a reported case of parental neglect and abuse concerning Scott, I understand that Mr. Lopez is quick to engage in questionable authoritarian, disciplinary measures. To put it in words I prefer: he is an abusive, alcoholic bastard. While I do not know specifically how he will react to any of the infractions Scott has committed today, I doubt it will be pleasant. I presume that he is neither aware of his son’s drug abuse nor his sexuality. And concerning the latter I assume neither is your father.”

“I’m not fucking gay,” Mickey barks out.

Principal Allen looks at him almost pityingly, but Mickey decidedly chooses to ignore the meaning behind that look and Principal Allen plays along, humoring Mickey on this point.

“Whether you are or not the report will detail what transpired today. I don’t think it will take much time until your father finds out about it,” he replies and then watches Mickey closely when he goes on. “I’ve heard what happened four years ago.”

Mickey glares at him, pissed that he thinks he knows everything and can make everything his goddamn business.

“You know shit is what you know,” Mickey retorts and huffs annoyed.

“Has he been released yet?” He asks instead of rising to the bait.

“Yesterday,” Mickey murmurs, his gaze wandering around.

Principal Allen seems to let that sink in for a moment, fiddling around with the last of his pills he had placed on the desk when he went to pick up the chair.

“Do you believe in fate, Mickey?”

Mickey just shakes his head annoyed, completely fed up with the guy. He can’t for the life of him figure him out.

“The fuck are you asking dumbass questions for?”

“Fate seems to be a mysterious concept, doesn’t it? Events that are defined by inevitability. Choose any which path to walk on and you’ll still end up at a predetermined place. Take the most irrelevant actions, something as insignificant as taking a left turn, and, suddenly, you have put the wheel of fate in motion. Makes you wonder if any of our choices even matter. But what if we are in fact the makers of our own fate? What if we can influence what kind of fate can await us? Believe the glass is half full and end up at a cool spring up in the mountain, believe the glass is half empty and end up at a parched dune in the desert. Inevitability versus sovereignty. One or the other? Or maybe there is indeed some kind of balance behind the two. After all, balance is what defines the universe. Light and the lack thereof, life and death, men and women, the past and the future, truth and lies, joy and pain. We say yes, somebody else says no; we say no, somebody else says yes. Where do we end up? At the same place? At a different place? And does it even matter if we never get to know the alternative or, again, the lack thereof?”

Just when Mickey is about to demand what the fuck he is on about, Principal Allen changes tracks.

“Did you know I knew your mother? In fact both your parents and I went to the same school. This very school,” he says, smiling softly. “Your father was quite the jackass back in the day.”

Mickey snorts, not finding that hard to believe in the slightest. Though he is surprised to hear Principal Allen went to school with his parents. Mickey’s mom died when he was young and Terry never talks about her. Most of his extended family comes from his father’s side, so there is virtually not much information about his mother. Which is why he can’t quiet help but to be curious, to want to listen to this weird destiny spouting lunatic for just a bit longer.

“He broke my nose once. And when he heard your mother helped me to the infirmary, he broke it in another place.”

“Sounds like him,” Mickey responds, smirking.

“I once heard your grandfather did the same thing to Terry. Broke his nose, I mean.”

That is not hard to believe either, Mickey thinks. Grandpa Milkovich was a lot grumpier than Terry and certainly just as violent as him.

“Your father never graduated,” he says. “I believe neither did his father. Nor your brothers. I don’t think any Milkovich has ever graduated from high school.”

“So?” Mickey asks annoyed.

“Think any of them even intended to graduate in the first place?”

“That’s a hard no,” Mickey scoffs.

“Do you? Intend to graduate from school?” He asks, watching him intently.

“What do you think?”

“Why is that?” He asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“I’m fucked for life anyway. What does it matter if I graduate or not?” Mickey replies annoyed.

“What if it did? What if you can break the cycle? Define your own fate?”

“By graduating from fucking high school?” He scoffs again. This is getting more and more ridiculous, Mickey thinks.

“I’m saying, take a left turn,” Principal Allen responds simply.

“What does this have to do with the expulsion report?”

“If you take a left turn, I will take a right turn. Balance, remember? Specifically, I want you to go to class, participate, do your school work, take your exams, and above all I want you to graduate.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Mickey asks incredulously.

“I will write that report, Mickey. I will describe in detail what happened today. But whether or not I will file and hand it over is up to you. I know your father is a raging homophobe. And both he and Scott’s father are incredibly violent which I would hate to ignore only because I am obligated to write a few sentences on a blank piece of paper. At the same time nothing will change simply by not writing that report. You are on a wheel of fate that will turn faster and faster the longer you are on it. And we both know you have a pretty good idea where you’ll end up. So, before you can’t jump from that ever faster spinning wheel of fate any longer, choose a different path. I can’t guarantee you won’t end up at the same place, but I do believe we are our own creator. If fate is inevitable but susceptible to our beliefs, you still have the chance to end up wherever you want to be.”

“What kind of fucking nonsense is this? Me graduating from school? So you won’t file that fucking report? What the fuck is it to you whether I graduate or not? What? You had some kinda hard-on for my Mom and now you want to pull some Samaritan act in honor of her memory? Fuck you! My life is none of your fucking business! Don’t act like you know a thing about me or my Dad!”

He jumps out of his seat again, angry and beyond pissed and all he wants to do is beat the shit out of that guy for daring to talk about his family.

“I’ll give you until tomorrow afternoon to think about it. It will take me until then to write the report anyway. But just to be very clear on this, if you decide to take me up on my offer, you will follow the stipulations I outlined. I expect you to sit down and study like any other school kid. No more skipping class. No more messing around. No more breaking school rules. No more running your illegal trafficking on school grounds either. And I will sign you up for the Student Mentoring Student program. Somebody will tutor you and assist you with your studies, seeing as you have virtually not been to class since the beginning of the school year, you need any help you can get to catch up. I see any hint to the contrary in your behavior, our deal is moot. Scott gets expelled and I forward my report. I’d like for you to keep in mind that whatever you decide directly affects Scott as well.”

“Yeah, you made that fucking clear,” Mickey barks back angrily, but Principal Allen simply shrugs in response.

“Take it or leave it.”

“You fucking piece of shit, I’m out of here,” Mickey curses under his breath, loud enough to be heard and then turns to leave. Stopping in his tracks, he spins back one more time, mockingly holding his arms up. “Or is there anything else you would like to pile onto this goddamn heap of bullshit? Any destined science fair I’m supposed to attend?”

Principal Allen leans back in his chair, takes the last pill, and swallows it with a sip of water. He puts the glass down and then casually meets Mickey’s glare.

“I’m afraid the admission’s deadline for the science fair was last week. But I can check if I can squeeze you into our school’s mathlathon team?”

Mickey pulls out his most sarcastic grin and then flips him off as he walks out, slamming the door closed behind him as hard as he can.

LT ->\------------ ♡ ------------<\- LT

It’s by far the most ridiculous ultimatum of which he can think. Mickey’s heart is still beating like it’s punching against his ribcage and his breath seems to be permanently stuck in his throat. He spins around aimlessly, at a complete loss. All this energy buzzing through his body invokes the urge in him to scream it out and if his brothers weren’t outside his room, he would have given in. Instead he just balls down into a crouch and burrows his head between his knees, tightly gripping at his hair. This should never have happened, he thinks. Mickey still can’t believe he actually got caught like that. He had been so careful all this time and just one afternoon threatens to ruin his entire life. Might as well already have. He kills Principal Allen, he either ends up in the pen or he is on the run for the rest of his life. An investigation would most likely uncover today’s events anyway, so there is no point. And that deal he was offered is complete bullshit. Mickey has no reason to trust that man. There is nothing in it for him. Even if he has some kind of ridiculous lingering attachment to his mother, how does that relate to him graduating? Besides the fact that it’s nearly impossible for him to turn his grades around enough to graduate anyway, what is the point? A high school diploma isn’t exactly required in his line of work. There isn’t any benefit to Mickey and there is especially no benefit to Principal Allen. So, why all this bullshit? Mickey doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand anything anymore except for one thing. Nobody can ever find out what transpired today, but looking at his options chances are high it comes out one way or another and he can’t be around when it does.

And so he stands in his room in front of his dresser and pushes his clothes haphazardly into a duffel bag. If it is doomed to get out, he can’t stick around for the blowout. His stomach lurches uncomfortably at the thought. Leaving everything behind. Everything he’s ever known. He wouldn’t be able to come back. Wouldn’t ever be able to see his family again. And despite how conflicted he is about his father, he and his siblings are still the only family he has.

He packs the few items that mean anything to him. Like the picture of his Mom, or that baseball he stole from the stadium he snuck into one night and was put in juvie for the very first time, his favorite gun, and several clips of ammunition. The painstakingly saved up stash of money he hid inside his stereo. It’s not much, but it should be enough to get him a bus ticket out of Illinois and keep him afloat until he can find some work or figure out how else to make a living wherever he will end up.

He tosses everything in his bag quickly and without care and then spares one last look around his room. Aside from the constant pressure to keep a part of himself a secret from his family, having to sneak around and watch how to behave all the time, he loved this room. This house. The only place he ever knew to call home.

Biting his lip, he turns around and closes the door behind him.

His brothers are currently playing Call of Duty on the couch in the living room, beating on each other whenever one shot the other on the screen. He doesn’t know how to say good-bye. Not only because he cannot explain the situation he is in, but because the Milkoviches have never known how to really talk to each other when it didn’t involve guns, drugs, prison, or murder conspiracies. For a moment he considers leaving a note, but what is he supposed to say that would make what they are about to learn about him any better? Instead, he sneaks quietly out the back and leaves his brothers none the wiser to him taking off.

With shaky exhales he walks down the street and keeps glancing over his shoulder until he can’t see his home any longer. He heaves the bag up his shoulder and pulls his jacket tighter, rubbing at his eyes and sniffing once before making his way to the bus station.

Walking through the familiar streets of the neighborhood he grew up in, is like walking on memory lane. The first time he got mugged was in the alley he is currently walking past. The pub at the corner is from where he and his siblings used to drag drunk Terry home. The time he slit a police car’s tires when he was eight was one block over. And the grocery store he likes to steal from is just across the street. That towelhead never had the balls to say anything, no matter how often Mickey came to steal his snacks. And, suddenly, it hits him where he knows that ginger from earlier. It’s one of the fucking Gallaghers; the one that works at the store. Mickey actually has to laugh out loud. No wonder the kid was so pissed. He’s been terrorizing towelhead for a while now. Why exactly Gallagher would take it so personal is beyond him though. Mickey doesn’t think he ever stole anything when the kid was working.

Trying to figure out a Gallagher is pointless anyway. That family is just a bundle of fucked up crazy. The dad, Frank, is the worst drunk Chicago has ever seen. Spouts nonsense rants whenever the opportunity presents itself, passes out on benches, lawns, cars, or under the underpass, sometimes with clothes on and sometimes without. Cons one moron after the other and cashes in one disability check after the next, all so he can keep drinking himself comatose at the Alibi. Mickey isn’t sure what’s with the mother, but it seems like the oldest sister has been taking care of her siblings ever since she was little. Jumps from one shit job to the next to keep the family afloat. One of the brothers is Lip; that asshole had been writing his English papers last year when they were still in the same grade. Arrogant bastard. Apparently a genius that can ace the SATs. Some genius, Mickey snorts. Got involved with Karen Jackson. That chick is the biggest nutjob on the block. In addition to the kid from the store the family has possibly a million siblings. Apparently not all from the same daddy too. That family has so many rumors circling around them, the Pentagon would have problems figuring out what’s true and what’s bullshit. Supposedly, one of the sister’s boyfriends kidnapped and dumped Frank in Canada. Whether that actually happened or not, that family is just a big cuckoo’s nest best avoided. Just a giant tape of Fuck Nope.

Not that he has to worry about that any longer. He averts his gaze away from the store and moves on. His phone rings and for a moment he debates to just ignore it, until he gives in to check who is calling. He recognizes the number immediately and it’s probably the only person in the world who could have called him he wouldn’t ignore at this moment.

“Yo, shithead,” he hears the familiar voice greet.

“Hey Mandy,” Mickey replies.

“Could you be more of an ass? It’s been months since you visited me,” she says complaining, but it’s just the usual banter between them.

“Don’t whine like a bitch. I put money in your commissary account last week,” he replies, but for some reason he can’t help the smile that forms upon hearing his sister’s voice.

“Yeah, thanks for that. I was running low on smokes. Thought I had to scissor one of them dykes soon, if you hadn’t,” Mandy responds.

“Yeah? You got a taste for it now? That’s hot,” Mickey plays along, trying not to think too much about the implication that he can joke about his sister maybe turning gay by being in juvie, when he had his own revelations when he was doing time there.

“Eww, gross, Mick! I better not be in one of your fantasies when you jerk off!”

“You wish, B-cup,” Mickey retorts back and is surprised by the laugh that escapes him.

“Jackass.”

“Bitch.”

“For real though, when are you gonna visit me again?” She asks, her voice turning just the tiniest bit softer.

Mickey looks up at the sun, sighing silently. It’s not like he and Mandy have had the best of relationships, but she’s still his little sister and his heart clenches uncomfortably upon the thought that he won’t be able to see her again. Hates to imagine what she would think of him once she finds out that he got caught fucking a guy.

“Soon,” he says, turning down an alley, wanting to get away from the crowds.

“Liar,” she calls him out knowingly. How she knows Mickey can’t tell. “Whatever. Thank fuck Sandy is in here with me. Juvie is just so boring.”

“Didn’t you stab a girl recently?” Mickey asks in disbelief.

“With a plastic fork. It barely broke skin,” she answers and Mickey can practically feel her rolling her eyes.

“Any news on parole?”

Mandy had repeatedly punched and kicked her teacher in the crotch for dangling his hard-on in her face during class and was sentenced to two and a half years in juvie, since the guy is permanently sterile now thanks to her.

“Hearing is set to next month. Chances are good I’ll make it out of here then. This place is fucking overcrowded,” she replies.

“I’ll visit you then,” Mickey quips half-heartedly.

“Sure. I bet I have to hitchhike home,” she says before she switches tracks. “Heard Dad has been released.”

Mickey hums in affirmation, not particularly wanting to talk about Terry with everything that has happened today.

“Don’t give me shit for saying this, but,” Mandy begins, hesitating for a moment. “I miss you guys.”

“What the…” Mickey exhales incredulously, eyeing his phone for a second in disbelief.

“Shut up. I just miss home I guess. Never been this long in juvie…”

And Mickey kinda gets it, after a while the disconnect to the outside world, to the people you care about gnaws on one’s spirit. Especially if you’re not used to it. This is only Mandy’s second time in there.

“It gets better. Phases that come and go,” Mickey replies quietly. “Just don’t let anybody see the place is getting to you.”

“Course not, I’m a Milkovich,” she responds and a soft laugh escapes her. “Holy shit, I just realized if I make it out next month, it will be the first time we’re all back home. When was the last time none of us was locked up?”

“Can’t think that far back,” Mickey answers and laughs, hoping Mandy doesn’t hear the bitterness in his voice. He could say good-bye now, take this opportunity and let her know that they won’t ever be back together. Maybe tell her that he loves her and that he misses her too.

The words never come and Mandy’s time runs out, leaving Mickey standing at the sidewalk by himself, biting at his lower lip and desolately looking up at the sun. Sometimes he feels like such a coward.

He blinks the dark spots from his vision after averting his gaze from the direct light and realizes he must have walked into the abandoned industrial block while talking to Mandy. Mickey often comes here whenever he wants to let loose, to drink, or fire his gun. He stares at the run-down buildings now, his breathing picking up and without making the conscious decision he steps inside. He climbs the stairs until he reaches the roof where he stands for a moment to catch his breath.

Looking over Chicago’s skyline makes him want to scream. He just wants to get rid of all these feelings tying knots in his insides. Wants to clear his lungs so he doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating anymore. But nothing comes out, as caged in as it always has. His teeth grate against each other, his hands ball into fists, and with determined steps he walks in front of a raised wall mantling the former chimney to the right, slips his bag from his shoulder, and pulls out his gun.

With no particular aim he starts shooting, the noise ringing in his ears painfully. He hardly braces for the recoil and finds himself stumbling a little backward. On shaky legs the bullets are flying around without particular target in mind, but Mickey doesn’t even realize how dangerous this is. Or maybe deep down he does know.

When he’s emptied the first clip, he reaches for another one inside his bag, unconsciously wiping over his face with his jacket sleeve. He sniffs once, inserting the ammunition and this time takes the gun in both his hands when he fires. His mind replays this afternoon’s events as if projected at the wall in front of him, like some kind of personalized horror film. Sees himself get caught as he was lying bend over the desk, sees himself kicking the chair in the principal’s office, sees that moment when Principal Allen kept going on about all that fate bullshit. And he shoots and shoots and shoots, entertaining the thought of fate for one moment. If fate was indeed a thing, Mickey must have been destined to live a miserable life the moment he was born. Why else must he feel like this? Alone even when he’s in a crowd, an outsider in his own family, somebody else the moment he isn’t by himself. Resentful and angry, helpless and confused. Lonely. If fate is indeed a thing, apparently he isn’t worth a fuck.

The gun jams unexpectedly, ripping Mickey out of his thoughts.

“Fuckin’ really?” Mickey curses, staring at the traitorous firearm.

Frustrated, he throws the gun against the wall. Sees it chip at the already with bullet holes riddled plaster. And all he wants to do in that moment is do more damage; he isn’t done yet. He strides to the wall, takes a swing, and connects his fist with it. He keeps hitting and hitting, splitting skin in the process. Keeps hitting the wall until his knuckles are utterly bloody. Catching his breath, he stumbles back, tripping on his own feet and tumbles to the ground. He feels the wetness around his eyes and burrows the heels of his palms roughly against them. As he’s lying there he turns his face to the side, watching the sun as it sets on the horizon, bathing the sky in warm hues of red and gold. The pain pulsates through his hand in what was a reprieve just a moment ago, but is now a constant ache he can’t escape, leaving him feeling powerless and vulnerable. He exhales shakily, wondering what he’s doing. He should get up and keep going. He’s already made his decision to leave. But lying here, his body just feels pinned down to the ground, lacks the strength to get back up on his feet.

He wants to stand up, but he doesn’t know how, so he stays on the ground.

All that is left is to stare at the sun and watch it being slowly swallowed by the dark. And at first he doesn’t notice it, because the sky is already turning darker by the sun setting, but then he sees it, like a pitch black blanket rolling over the horizon. He stares as the sky is split into the world he knows and a black nothingness, erasing any form of shape and dimension in its wake.

“What the fuck?” He breathes out and watches as the darkness rolls over Chicago, swallowing everything it touches. He blinks up into the sky above him, only to find it having been replaced by the impenetrable nothingness. In the distance he can hear car horns blaring and people shouting until the sounds are suddenly cut off much like a TV being muted by the simple press of a button. Panicked, he swallows as the darkness creeps closer toward him. He reaches his hand out, feels it gliding along his skin until it has completely consumed his body.

And then there is literally nothing.

No visual, no sound, no feeling. Where a moment ago he was still lying on the rooftop, the hard cement rubbing at his skin, there is nothing anymore. Mickey can’t even feel the clothes on his body. Can’t detect the slight chill he was able to feel just a moment ago. Even though he can’t see he reaches both hands in front of him and while he knows the fingers meet, he can’t feel it. He wants to curse, but no sound comes out of his mouth. Can’t even feel the tongue licking over his lips. If he could actually feel his heart it would be racing now due to the panic, Mickey is sure, but all there is is this disconnected link in which his mind seems to work just fine, and his body is technically following all the cues his brain sends out, but he feels numb to it all.

He wonders what the fuck is going on, whether he’s completely lost his mind. But he knows he wasn’t even so much as drinking earlier, much less taking any hallucinogens. His mind is ready to succumb to absolute panic when, suddenly, he feels his skin vibrating, slowly buzzing as if in response to something. The tingling sensation gradually builds and gets so violent Mickey is afraid he is about to be frayed alive, even if there is no actual heat coming from it. It’s not exactly painful, but it’s intense, almost ferocious and curses throughout his entire body as if trying to escape him.

And then it’s over. From one second to the next he’s suddenly back on the rooftop, breathing heavily. The sky dark, but for natural reasons now. No evidence remaining of the nothingness that had erased everything just a moment ago. As if it didn’t actually happen and Mickey would doubt his own mind, if he couldn’t hear the cacophony of screams and alarms echoing through Chicago.


	3. Chapter 3

The world has gone dark for five minutes. And absolutely nobody knows why and how. Given the nature of the blackout, no theories of spontaneous eclipses or optical illusions have found acceptance. Nobody can explain how the entire world was dipped into darkness for minutes. What caused it and what it left behind. Except for footage and audio recordings, the phenomenon left no evidence of its occurrence behind. Where the scientific community is absolutely stumped for an answer, religious theories have run amok within the few hours after the event. It being the sign of the end of the world one of the more popular ones. The wrath of God, the foreshadowing of the end of time. The introduction of a new era. A reckoning. A cleanse. A purge. As nobody has yet uncovered what the darkness left behind theories are endless. Nobody was harmed, no destruction was detected, no sudden creatures of hell have materialized to destroy humankind. It is absolutely baffling. And while nothing has actually happened, it completely set the world in a state of hysteria within less than 24 hours.

After the initial shock and having tried to figure out what the fuck was going on, Mickey had made his way to the station, only to be told no buses were leaving until tomorrow earliest due to the chaos the freak event had caused. Mickey had considered hotwiring a car and just make it out of Chicago for now, but nothing seemed to be moving anyway; the streets were jammed with vehicles and people still reeling from the blackout. In the end he went back home and stayed up late with his brothers, watching the news in the hopes of getting some kind of explanation.

As far as Mickey can tell everyone had the same psychedelic experience. His brothers described the whole event much the same as Mickey had witnessed it. The news corroborated their stories, stating that in fact the entire world experienced the same bizarre phenomenon, not just Chicago. The whole occurrence is incredibly surreal; Mickey doesn’t know what to think of it. As if the, what the western media has dubbed, blackout hadn’t already been a huge brain fuck, there is one thing that makes Mickey even more uneasy. There is one thing nobody has mentioned so far. Apparently everyone had witnessed the darkness and experienced the numbing nothingness for minutes until it disappeared without a trace, but when Mickey had asked about the buzzing sensation toward the end, none of his brothers seemed to know what he was talking about. He is certain he didn’t make it up, the experience having been entirely too haunting to have been a figment of his imagination, but so far he hasn’t heard anyone else mentioning it. As if his headache couldn’t get any worse. He’s already got to deal with enough shit as it is. A near apocalyptic event is really just the icing on the cake at this point.  
  
“Where to?” The clerk behind the glass window asks, already hectically typing into his computer.

“Next bus heading south out of state,” Mickey replies simply, not particularly caring where he goes as long as it’s far away. The clerk gives him a curious side glance at that, but seems to shrug the unusual request off, not caring enough to further probe.

“Nashville?” He asks, reading from the screen in front of him.

“We’ve got a winner,” Mickey answers half-heartedly and pulls out his wallet.

“Bus leaves in half an hour at station 4,” the clerk says after taking Mickey’s cash and handing him the ticket in return.

With time to kill he heads over to the benches. He forgoes a woman currently reading the papers with a cup of coffee in hand to sit beside an older lady in a green sweater with glasses hanging around her neck. He stares at the ticket in his hands, reading the bold letters stating his final stop. For some reason he feels a little disappointed at the lack of emotions he has after finally having a destination. He expected relief. Perhaps even cautious anticipation, but looking at his ticket, it doesn’t invoke anything of the sort. It simply being a name on a piece of paper. He licks the inside of his cheek and then averts his gaze, aimlessly looking left and right, not seeing anything in particular.

“Leaving or returning home?” The older lady next to him asks conversationally.

Mickey eyes her for a moment, not used to getting roped into casual conversations, his rough demeanor and knuckle tattoos usually serving as a natural deterrent.

“Leavin’,” he mumbles in reply, letting his gaze wander over the bustling street.

“I thought you had that look in your eye,” she responds, bobbing her head. “Never easy, is it?”

Mickey doesn’t really know what to say to that and simply keeps on watching the flow of people and vehicles passing by in front of him, not particularly interested in engaging with the old hag in the first place.

“I came to visit my grandchildren. Sweet little munchkins, but perhaps a bit aloof, if you ask me,” she says and then leans closer to Mickey. “Real North Side kids they grew up to be. Yikes,” she adds with a conspiratorial chuckle.

“The worst,” Mickey replies reflexively, his eyes flitting to the woman next to him.

“Right? Can you believe they asked me if my apple pie was sugar and gluten-free?”

“What the fuck kinda apple pie is that supposed to be?” He retorts appalled, turning to meet her eyes in bewilderment and then wonders why he is even talking to that old lady. His eyes catch the younger woman from a bench over standing up and leaving and he sighs innerly.

“The _fucking_ kind I refuse to make,” she responds and Mickey is caught off guard when he finds himself huffing out an amused laugh. She takes a sip from her thermosbottle in what looks to be herbal tea and then sighs heavily. “I never feel more out of place as when I meet my son’s family. I used to think it’s because of my advanced age. That I’ve become obsolete in the vicissitudes of this new age. But I’ve come to realize only because we’re called family, doesn’t always make it so, you know?”

Mickey looks away and just shrugs. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes and is about to light one when the old lady clears her throat loudly.

“Would you mind?” She asks kindly, smiling. “I have a bit of a bad set of lungs.”

He grinds his teeth, debating for a moment to ignore her, but then puts the pack of smokes away again. It’s going to be a long ride and an even longer one without a smoke now. He sighs wearily.

“So, what brings you to…” She begins, staring and nodding at the already slightly crumpled ticket in his hands.

“Nashville,” Mickey volunteers and then just shrugs in answer.

“I asked the wrong question,” she replies, bobbing her head as if she knew how to interpret Mickey’s reticence. “Why are you leaving Chicago?”

Mickey eyes her annoyed, licking the corner of his mouth, before he turns away again and lets out an exasperated exhale.

“Out of options,” he mumbles in reply.

“Clearly, if you feel the need to go to Nashville,” she responds, laughing sympathetically. “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think it will turn out to be the haven you want it to be. Especially when it isn’t a place you’re actually running from.”

“Who the fuck asked you? You don’t know shit,” Mickey retorts aggravated.

“Maybe not, please forgive this old woman for putting her nose where it isn’t wanted. But you’re so young, dear. This isn’t the time to be running away. This is the time to live your life to your heart’s content. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

“Right,” Mickey scoffs derisively. “Because the world is just filled with flowers, rainbows, and butterflies. I’m free to do exactly shit.” As evidenced perfectly by yesterday’s ultimatum, he thinks bitterly.

“The worst prison we can live in is the one we build ourselves.”

“What the fuck does that mean,” he exhales annoyed, rolling his eyes.

“It means your happiness lies in your own hands. You just got to be brave enough to get ahold of it.”

“Could everyone just stop dumping their crackpot life philosophies on me? Nobody fucking asked!”

“I’m sorry. It’s just you really look like you don’t want to leave,” she says, looking at him softly.

“So what? I don’t want to leave! I also don’t have a choice! Just mind your own goddamn business, lady!”

“If you don’t want to leave, then don’t leave,” she tells him, voice gentle and comforting.

“It’s not that easy!” He barks out, jumping up, ready to bolt when the old lady places her hand softly on Mickey’s arm.

“It probably isn’t. The things worth fighting for never are. But you can find a way,” she says, tucking at his jacket gently to have him sit back down again.

“There’s nothing worth fighting for here,” he responds angrily, but stays seated this time.

“I think not having to be forced out for whatever reason is worth fighting for. The right to stay when you don’t want to leave is worth fighting for. Your freedom, dear, is worth fighting for.”

“You’re really weird, has anyone ever told you that?” Mickey asks, eyeing her dumbfounded. There seems to be no benefit in arguing with her. Clearly she’s a whackjob, Mickey thinks, his irritation from a moment ago having dissipated upon that realization.

She laughs with vigor upon being called weird by Mickey, clearly not taking any offense. He feels pretty out of his element here. Normally, Mickey’s antics invoke quiet a different reaction in people.

“Oh, I like you, boy. You should join my book club once. My girlfriends would just eat you up,” she states, still laughing. Mickey just looks at her lost.

“Good things will happen, I promise you that. I’ve lived a few years longer than you, so just trust me, dear.”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” Mickey states quietly, averting his gaze to the ground.

“I know that whatever it is that is weighing on you, you can find a way to deal with it,” she responds and moves her hand on Mickey’s where he is clutching his bus ticket, the latter tensing upon being touched this intimately. “How about you give me this ticket of yours to hold onto while you go for a walk to take a smoke before the bus arrives? I’ll be waiting here.”

“What?” Mickey asks, staring at her bewildered.

“Go on,” she says, taking the ticket and nudging him to get up.

“I-” he stammers confused as the old lady is waving him off.

He feels somewhat like an idiot just standing there and so, albeit confused, he starts going, not really sure why. He keeps glancing over his shoulder in bewilderment, seeing her happily smiling at him as he walks away. Might as well smoke that cigarette, Mickey thinks. His life is so weird right now.

After he’s taken his walk around the block, having smoked his cigarette, he finds himself standing at the curb looking at the bus that has arrived with the front sign reading NASHVILLE, ready to depart. He sees the old lady sitting at the window smiling at him when she spots him.

Mickey lets his gaze wander to the door at the front of the bus. He bites his lip, his fingers distractedly fumbling with the hem of his jacket. Taking a deep breath, he looks up to the old grandma and apparently she doesn’t need to hear him say or gesticulate anything to understand. Smiling, she nods and pulls Mickey’s attention to the bench they had been sitting on just a few minutes ago, before she waves her good-bye when the bus driver closes the door and takes off.

With a tired sigh Mickey watches as the bus leaves and then trots to the bench. He scoffs when he sees what she left behind for him.

That leftover slice of apple pie better be worth the cost of his bus ticket.

LT ->\----------- ♡ -----------<\- LT

“You’re here to see Principal Allen?” Ben, the assistant, asks from behind his desk, several newspapers with the same kind of headlines lying in front of him.

“No, the fucking president of the United States,” Mickey barks back annoyed.

Ben doesn’t rise to the bait and simply nods, going through the papers on his desk.

“Here, Principal Allen asked me to hand this to you,” he says and holds out a big envelope.

“What’s this?” Mickey grabs and opens it to look inside. In it he finds his current grades overview, his curriculum for the year, each class’ table of topics for his school year, and a filled-out form for the Student Mentoring Student program.

“You’ll need to sign it now,” Bob responds, referring to the admission’s form.

Mickey rolls his eyes. He’s already here; obviously he’s going to participate in the program, since Principal Allen has made it very clear what would happen if he didn’t. Tossing it back after quickly signing it, his eyes wander to the post-it note on his curriculum.

_Your study partner will be waiting for you in the guidance counselor’s office at 4 pm. Since you’ve apparently already acquired a key, feel free to use the office for your studies.  
I’ll be monitoring your attendance. Don’t try anything pointless._

Charming, Mickey thinks. For a brief moment he re-evaluates his homicide option. Life in prison can’t be worse than this. He exhales annoyed as he turns and makes his way down the hall. Mickey checks the clock on the wall and curses, it’s already 4.13 pm. Hurrying, he marches to the guidance counselor’s office, along the way wondering what the hell he is doing. It’s insane. He should be halfway out of Illinois by now. Instead he’s meeting his study partner out of all people. Maybe the world did end yesterday and he’s trapped in this weird-ass personalized spot in hell. He clicks his tongue annoyed and busts the door to the guidance counselor’s office open. He better get this shit over with.

“You?”

“Mickey?”

“The fuck are you doing here?” Mickey asks incredulously upon seeing the Gallagher kid from yesterday in front of him.

“I could ask you the same question,” he replies, suspiciously eyeing him. He seems to have been on his way out, almost having caught the door in his face when Mickey marched in.

“None of your fucking business. Scram. I’m supposed to meet somebody here. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about yesterday. I still owe you a beating,” Mickey says, pointing his finger at him.

“That’s funny, because I’m supposed to meet somebody here too. And no way that’s you,” the Gallagher kid retorts, leaning against the desk, crossing his arms.

“You’re shitting me. You’re my study partner?” Mickey asks in disbelief.

“Wait, you signed up for the study program? You?” He shoots back just as disbelieving and laughs snidely.

“You got a problem with that?”

“Are you kidding me? Do you honestly want me to believe that you, Mickey Milkovich, came here to study?”

The kid laughs again, a loud, open mouthed laugh, and Mickey gets the urge to knock a few of those teeth loose.

“Yeah, asshole and you better stop pissing me off,” Mickey answers as he walks over to the other side of the desk, plopping down on the chair.

“You’re serious?” The kid scoffs, turning around to face him over the desk.

“Do I need to tattoo it somewhere for you to get it, Gallagher? Yes, I’m here on purpose. Are we doing this or not?” Mickey asks pissed, it’s not like he wants to be here and now he also has to deal with this shithead.

“As if these 24 hours couldn’t get any stranger,” Gallagher mumbles to himself as he drops his backpack to the ground and sits down.

That should be Mickey’s line. Within one day his whole life turned to shit. How the hell did he end up with a fucking Gallagher as his study partner in this goddamn shithole of a room he had been caught fucking in by the principal himself only yesterday, shortly before the entire world was spontaneously sucked into a dark pit of nothingness? This entire situation is already a shitshow. That he had to be paired up with that Gallagher kid is just a testament to his bad luck. He should have left. Why did he allow a demented old hag to get inside his head?

“I’m surprised you know who I am,” Gallagher comments with a scoff as he pulls out a notepad.

“Our little run-in yesterday jogged my memory. You Gallaghers have a knack for pissing me off,” Mickey says, sarcastic smile plastered on his face.

“Right, _we’re_ the annoying ones,” he replies, rolling his eyes.

“Your brother sure is. How’s Lip’s lip by the way? All healed up by now?” Mickey asks, eyebrows raised in amusement. He and his cousins taught him a little lesson when Lip ironically gave Mickey some lip.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? Wait, you can’t, because he graduated whereas you got held back a grade,” he responds, meeting his glare challenging.

“Like I give a shit,” Mickey retorts annoyed.

“See, I do believe that. So why are you here?” Gallagher asks expectantly, holding his arms up in the air.

“Fuck if I have to explain myself to you. Let’s just get this going,” Mickey answers gruffly, avoiding his stare.

This setup is ridiculous. He doesn’t understand why he is here, but he knows he needs to keep going even if he doesn’t know what he’s actually doing. At this point Mickey is just trying to dig himself out of the hole he’s found himself in inch by inch, hoping he doesn’t suffocate before he’ll make it out.

“Fine,” Gallagher responds and reaches for his backpack. “Clearly I wasn’t given much details concerning this arrangement, what subject did you need help with?”

Mickey looks at him pointedly, making an off-hand gesture with his arm.

“All of them?” He eventually says when Gallagher doesn’t seem to get it. He pulls out his current preliminary report card and roughly tosses it on the desk in front of him.

“Great,” Gallagher mumbles and takes a look at Mickey’s grades. “All Fs… F like in all the fucks you give?”

Mickey just flips him off for that comment. He has to give it to the kid, he really has nerves.

“I need to get to an average where I can graduate. Can you do it?” Mickey asks, staring at the desk, licking his lips.

Gallagher scoffs out a laugh again, shaking his head incredulously.

“I really don’t get why you would want to graduate. As I far as I can see from this we share almost every class and I haven’t seen you once since the school year started. What reason would you possibly have now to graduate, even going so far as to sign up for the program?”

“And I told you, it’s none of your business! Don’t fucking ask me again, Gallagher,” Mickey barks out, grinding his teeth.

“Fine!” He replies, throwing the report card back on the desk. “And it’s Ian.”

“What?”

“My name, it’s Ian,” he says annoyed.

“Whatever,” Mickey responds, rolling his eyes. “So, how does this work?”

Ian seems to take a moment to think about that while he rummages through his backpack.

“Let’s start with homework and see what you need to catch up on, I guess?” He says and pulls out a pen from his bag.

“You guess?” Mickey narrows his eyes.

“You have missed every class so far, you’re not exactly a textbook tutoring case. Give me some time to figure this out,” Ian retorts and Mickey could swear he’s acting strangely defensive.

“Let me be very clear, _Ian_ ,” Mickey begins, leaning over the desk. “If you don’t get me to graduation, I will make sure you won’t be alive to see it either.”

“Fuck you, Mickey. With your IQ it will be a miracle if you pass even one class,” he replies, meeting his glare head-on.

“Either I graduate or you’re dead,” Mickey repeats emphatically.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, let’s start,” Ian agrees mockingly and Mickey is seriously pissed that this kid just let’s all of his threats roll off his shoulder. He would love to show him just how serious he is if it weren’t for the fact that he needs him so badly right now. It’s impossible for him to do this alone. Gallagher is right, it will be a miracle, if Mickey actually manages to graduate. He hasn’t been to class, only ever went to school to run his business from there, he has no clue what he’s missed, and what he has to study to pass the upcoming exams. “Last period tomorrow is Spanish. Mrs. Clarkson does a vocab test every two weeks. Pretty sure we’ll have one tomorrow. Let’s go over the vocabulary I guess.”

Mickey raises his eyebrow again, sternly glaring at him.

“Right, sorry,” Ian apologizes, rolling his eyes. He hands over his list of vocabulary to Mickey.

“Fuckin’ fantastic,” Mickey says under his breath upon seeing the two double sided pages.

He settles in his chair and reads over the vocabulary, realizing very quickly that his mind keeps wandering off. He doesn’t do studying. He doesn’t know how to do this shit. Sitting here, seeing all these foreign words cascading down the white paper, Mickey just can’t get his brain to make any sense of it. It’s just pointless having to go through Spanish vocabulary, generally meaningless to go to school at all for someone like Mickey. The concept just seems so utterly absurd and misplaced in his life. Which makes it so incredibly hard for Mickey to keep focusing on words such as _energía renovable_ and _calentamiento global_.

He wants to throw in the towel after only five minutes, can’t see this working out. Frustrated he bites at his lip, gripping the papers a little too tightly in his hand, and exhales harshly through his nose. He notices Ian watching him, but stomps down the immediate urge to tell him off, and instead lets his gaze settle back on the blocks of black ink peppering the papers in his hand. Surprisingly, it takes a lot of energy to be him, to pick constant fights with everyone, to watch every move he makes and Mickey just feels exhausted. He feels like he’s been told he’s got to do a marathon when he’s already running on his last fumes. How is he supposed to get through this school year and graduate on top of having to deal with his father? It’s impossible.

“Let’s go through them one section at a time together,” Ian says and turns his chair a little, so that he can look over the vocabulary list alongside Mickey.

Mickey eyes him for a moment, but then places the pages between them in order for Ian to have a better view. Ian reads out loud through the first group of words and then looks at Mickey expectantly to repeat after him on his second round. He rolls his eyes and stares at him exasperated when Mickey just looks at him as if he had asked him to sing. Might have as well, Mickey thinks. He’s not some kind of moronic parrot. But Ian doesn’t let up and just keeps staring at him expectantly.

“Fucking hell…” Mickey murmurs to himself, grinding his teeth, and then relents and repeats after Ian.

Ian actually smiles in response and for some reason Mickey finds it suits Gallagher, despite him looking so alien-like. Above all, he doesn’t mind having put it there and even feels a bit encouraged repeating the next batch of vocabulary after Ian.

By the time Ian quizzes Mickey, he doesn’t hesitate anymore and just goes along, having abandoned his initial reservations. He still thinks it’s pointless, but it’s not like he can get around studying, the expulsion report hanging like the Sword of Damocles above his head. He is no good, hardly remembering any vocabulary correctly, but Ian never seems to get frustrated with him and just keeps on going through the same batch of words until he sees some progress having been made. He still doesn’t like the guy, but he has to admit he’s not as bad as he initially thought. Much more likable than his brother Lip.

Quietly, he goes through the next batch of words by himself before they will go over them together, when Ian’s phone chimes, alerting him to a new message. Whatever the text reads has Ian exhale a sigh of relief, visibly relaxing in his seat. He brushes his hand over his face and then looks up to see Mickey watching him.

“My younger brother was MIA since yesterday’s blackout. We were looking for him all night. Turns out he was detained by the police and used his phone call to warn his dealers instead of contacting us,” Ian explains, having gone from relieved to annoyed now.

“Good kid,” Mickey comments.

“He’s facing juvie now, because he won’t sell out his bosses,” Ian replies, clearly unhappy.

“Juvie ain’t so bad,” Mickey states, shrugging.

“Yeah, well, we’d rather have him home with us,” he says and tosses his phone to the side.

Mickey can’t remember anyone ever giving a shit in his family. Trips to juvie and prison are just parts of their lives. And home hasn’t really felt like home since his mother had died anyway.

“Did you see it too? I mean… yesterday,” Ian asks hesitantly.

He seems a little freaked out just talking about it and Mickey can actually relate. The whole experience was entirely too bizarre to be flippant about it.

“Yeah,” Mickey replies, keeping his eyes on the paper in front of him.

“Did you…” Ian starts, but then seems to think about his choice of words. “What did you think of the blackout?”

“I don’t know, man,” he answers quietly. He honestly has no idea what to think about yesterday.

Ian bobs his head once in acknowledgment, staring down at his fingers.

“That moment… It was just canceling everything out… I-” Hesitantly, he looks up, eyeing Mickey curiously. “Did you, you know, feel anything?”

“Nope, nothing,” he replies. Given the fact Mickey seems to be the only one who had a slightly different brand of yesterday’s nightmare trip compared to the rest of the _actual fucking world_ , he doesn’t think it’s in his best interest to share that particular info with anyone. After a beat he smirks and adds, “ _Nada_.”

It takes Ian a moment to realize Mickey’s made a joke, apparently it being outside of what he thought Mickey is capable of doing, but when he does realize he actually huffs out a laugh in response.

“All hope’s not lost on you yet,” Ian says amused.

Mickey isn’t so sure about that, but for some reason it’s nice to hear those words anyway.

He knows he’s fucked for life. Whatever he does it will never be enough to change that. He’s had a long time to come to terms with this and he doesn’t actually mind. How could he if he’s never known anything else? Only, the more time passes the more insurmountable it all seems and he gets less and less confident he will be able to handle what life has in store for him. Hope might just as well be one of the words in front of him. He wouldn’t recognize, much less even try to internalize it. He doesn’t know how.

Green eyes stare at him and Mickey looks up to meet his gaze. Ian doesn’t look away as he seems to consider something silently in the privacy of his own mind. His eyes look somewhat dull. Almost a bit lifeless. Freckles pepper his pale skin and his fiery red hair stands out harshly in contrast. There is something about the guy. A weird feeling that Mickey can’t shake the longer he looks at him.

There is this moment where they both realize they have been staring too long at each other and swiftly, they both look away, returning to the vocab list.

Mickey has a weird feeling about this Ian Gallagher…

LT ->\----------- ♡ -----------<\- LT

Mickey feels ready to collapse into his bed when he comes home, drained from the events of the day. If his stomach wouldn’t be grumbling in protest, he would have done just that. He passes empty pizza boxes on his way to the kitchen, silently cursing his brothers. He checks the fridge and sighs upon the sight. Grabbing a beer he plops down at the kitchen table and starts downing the bottle, figuring it’ll have to do.

Sitting in the dark he rubs at his eyes as his mind circles back to yesterday, regretting all the life choices that led to him in that room that day. Only, he thinks angrily, he can’t remember ever making these choices. It’s not like he chooses to breathe either. If it’s supposed to be different, he doesn’t see how. He knows he’s screwed up, but not by his definition and apparently it’s the only one that doesn’t matter. And now he’s got to live with the aftermath, treading water in the open where nobody can see him. It’s all that old lady’s fault. He could be starting a new life far away from this mess right now, instead he’s hungry and tired and alone in his own home. It’s all her fault.

Mickey huffs annoyed when he remembers what she left him and pulls out the tinfoil wrapped pie from his jacket. He tosses it on the table in front of him, staring at his dinner in irritation before he gets up to get a fork.

“Mickey!” He hears as the front door bumps open. His uncle is carrying Terry in, drunk and in the middle of another of his racist speeches. “A little help, kid?”

Together they dump Terry on the couch and watch him as he shrugs out of his jacket while simultaneously loudly demanding another beer.

“Yeah, chill. I’ll get it,” Mickey responds and makes his way to the kitchen. “Did he meet his PO today?”

“Dragged him there at 8 am,” his uncle replies and shakes his head when Mickey offers him a bottle of beer.

“Good,” he says, but can’t seem to shake the feeling of disappointment. “He use your urine?”

“Nah, Jamie’s. Too much coke in mine.”

Mickey guesses it made sense to use his cousin’s urine. Jamie just got out of prison too and his PO is a real stickler, making it impossible for him to do any hard drugs, if he doesn’t want to head back to the metal hotel right away. He had to listen to him whine about it for the past couple of weeks.

“Thanks for dropping him off,” Mickey says as he hands Terry a beer, who seems to be only minutes away from passing out.

“Sure thing, kid,” his uncle Ronny replies and turns around to go. “Almost forgot,” he says and stops to rummage around in his inner jacket pockets. “Here, I told him to destroy it right away, but he wanted to keep it. Says it’s his victory reel.”

“His what?” Mickey asks confused, taking the CD handed to him.

“Don’t let his PO see,” he says and waves a grumbling Terry off as he leaves.

“Mickey!” Terry calls and beckons him over to the couch. “Gimme that.”

“What’s this shit?” Mickey asks as he sits down next to his father.

“That shit,” Terry says and snatches the CD out of Mickey’s hand, “is a stellar example of what it means to bring order to this fuckin’ neighborhood. Put it in, son!”

Terry pushes him off the couch in direction of their fancy home entertainment system, courtesy of the electronics shop’s broken alarm system three blocks over. Tired and annoyed, Mickey indulges Terry and pops the CD in and then settles back next to him.

“What are we looking at?” Mickey asks as he presses play and a grainy film reel shows a dark and deserted back alley.

“Shut it and watch,” Terry slurs a little and throws his arm over the back of the couch.

Mickey keeps looking at the empty alley, wondering what he is supposed to see. It’s a typical back alley, the focus of the camera directed at a back door and the dumpsters next to it, the footage obviously having been captured from a security camera. He thinks the main street the alley leads to at the far back seems vaguely familiar but he can’t quite place it.

Three minutes pass and nothing happens, not even so much as a cat or rat passing by and Mickey is just about to point that out, ready to leave and head to bed, when the back door flies open and a man in his thirties tumbles backward, tripping and landing on his ass against the opposite wall. He holds his arms out in front of him, looking at somebody, seemingly talking to them. The grainy footage makes it hard for Mickey to recognize the person, but he is sure he knows the guy from somewhere.

“There we go,” Terry bellows and grins.

Mickey sees the excitement sparkle in Terry’s eyes and while he associates it with various types of situations, the moment before his father busts a drug den, for example, or whenever the opportunity arises where he can punch a cop, or all the times he gets his hands on a new shipment of guns, ready to distribute the shiny new goods in their neighborhood, a pit forms in his stomach as he believes he knows what type of misdeed got his father excited in this particular instance.

He sees Terry step out of the back door, pouncing on the guy cowering on the ground. His father punches and kicks and shoves the man around, the latter concentrating on protecting his head and side. A particularly hard punch has him skid on the ground and Mickey could almost hear the sound of bone cracking under his father’s fist, or maybe it’s just the phantom echo his brain helpfully provides on account of his own memories. The force of the punch has the man lying closer to the camera now and Mickey finally recognizes him.

“You wouldn’t believe what I saw that Iraqi bomb coat do in the back of his own store,” Terry says and sneers for good measure. “Got fucked by a dude in a head to toe black dress! Moaned like a little AIDS bitch in heat by having another man’s dick up inside his ass, can you believe it?”

Mickey swallows and tries not to show any visible reaction. He tells his hands to stay loose and not to curl into fists, ignores the cold sweat coating his palms, and manages to dismiss the urge to have them push himself of this coach and flee from the entire situation. The dread he’s started to feel ever since the incident four years ago is threatening to suffocate him now, confronted by the violent images in front of him. The fear of his father knowing makes him painfully aware of the close proximity to him on the couch, of the arm currently resting on the back rest behind him. Was he too careless after all? His father had given no indication he knew after he had returned home and so Mickey had felt safe for the moment, albeit still not allowing himself to let his guard down completely. But seeing his father assault the guy who is running the Kash and Grab, the store from which he frequently stole, because he got caught having sex with another man makes him question whether this was all a coincidence. That Terry’s latest victim just happened to be gay or if it wasn’t deliberate after all. The paranoia is eating at him, sending his heart beating into overdrive.

After seemingly satisfied with beating the helpless man around, Terry crouches down next to him and grabs a fist full of hair, pulling him closer to him as he begins to speak.

“ _If I ever see or hear you got your faggot ass dicked again, I will get the biggest knife I have,_ _tie_ _you down, and chop your_ _dick_ _off, since apparently your queer pussy doesn’t need it anymore_ ,” Terry’s sudden voice whispers into Mickey’s ear, speaking alongside what the Terry on the screen must have said to the guy earlier that day. Mickey startles and innerly curses for jumping at his father’s words. He hadn’t noticed Terry having moved this close to him.

The footage ends with Terry kicking his victim one more time and then disappearing back into the store again. Mickey tries to breathe evenly, not daring to turn around and see how his father is currently looking at him, while at the same time too afraid to show Terry his own face, as he isn’t sure it wouldn’t give him away.

“Got to be vigilant, son. Those queerbos are everywhere. They need to be hunted down and taught a lesson,” Terry says and Mickey can feel the breath hitting his ear, making his hair stand on end. He feels a hand tighten on the back of his neck, squeezing as if massaging the tense muscles there. “Right, son?”

Mickey slowly turns around and sees his father’s fierce eyes trained on him, the familiar sparkle visible upon the prospect of persecuting a group of people he hates to the core.

“Yeah…” Mickey says and hopes the dark helps him hide the nervous tremble as he returns his father’s grin.

Terry squeezes one more time, nodding his head in approval and then staggers off to his bedroom.

Mickey bites his lower lip, breathing harshly through his nose, eyes closed. He trots over to the kitchen table, sits down, and silently eats his pie.

It’s simultaneously the best and worst pie he’s ever eaten.


	4. Chapter 4

Only because Mickey had agreed to this ridiculous ultimatum does not mean that he has completely wrapped his mind around it. It takes him a moment to realize that he can’t go about his life the way he used to do. That attending class actually means setting his alarm the night before and getting up at 7 am to head to school. Or that having missed the entire beginning of the school year means he has absolutely no clue in which class rooms his classes are actually being held, leaving him busting through random rooms now. Since when has this school been so big?He swears in frustration as he barrels down the hall and crashes into the fifth class room, hoping that he finally got it right. Out of breath he takes in the looks of bewilderment from the teacher and the other students and wonders if he’s finally found his class.

“This history?” He asks brusquely.

He spots Ian further down the rows who rolls his eyes in response to his entrance.

“Y-Yes,” the teacher stammers out, obviously caught off guard having Mickey Milkovich burst into her class.

“Cool,” Mickey simply replies and slowly walks into the room to take a seat. It takes the teacher a moment before she gets her equilibrium back, but then she continues, opting to ignore Mickey’s late arrival.

He sees an empty space next to Ian and eyes his backpack, which is currently occupying the seat, pointedly. Ian glares at him and for a moment it looks like he would refuse Mickey, not wanting him to sit next to him, but eventually he pulls his bag down, clearing the seat.

“You’re only 37 minutes late,” Ian comments.

Class starts at 8, also something he needs to get used to. Sue him if it takes him a moment to re-adjust to this new routine, he thinks.

“Yeah, well, who thought it was a good idea to start school at fuck o’morning?” Mickey barks back quietly.

“How am I supposed to get you to graduation, if you can’t even make it to class?” Ian asks annoyed.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He says equally annoyed.

Ian looks at him unimpressed before he narrows his eyes, scrutinizing him and his desk closer.

“Where’s your stuff?”

Mickey actually follows Ian’s glare, realizing after a moment that he is probably supposed to bring something to class, a piece of paper and a pen at the very least. Again, he isn’t used to this yet, he’ll need a moment to remember these kinds of things.

“Forgot,” he mumbles.

Ian sighs and rips out a few blank papers and hands it to him alongside his extra pen. Mickey grunts something resembling a thanks as he takes the papers. Not that he knows what he is supposed to note down on them.

The teacher, whose name Mickey doesn’t even know, asks the class to turn to page 48 and Mickey stares lost as all his classmates flip through their books. Ian rolls his eyes again and then pushes his book closer to him.

“Let me guess, you never picked up the textbooks at the beginning of the year?” Ian whispers, keeping his eyes on the teacher and the blackboard.

“What do you think,” Mickey says annoyed, but scooches over, so that he can look into the textbook.

“Someday you will tell me why you are doing this, Milkovich,” Ian mutters and points at the paragraph they are currently discussing when Mickey’s eyes roam around the page aimlessly.

“What’s a _Robe_ spierre?” Mickey asks. Ian stares at him incredulously. “What?”

“It’s _Robespierre_ and he was a person. Something to do with him being one of the most influential figures in the French Revolution by helping instigate the abolition of the monarchy and establishing a French republic instead. He was quite radical, didn’t tolerate any anti-revolutionists. Apparently he was responsible for roughly 17,000 public executions. Among the deaths the king himself,” Ian explains as he keeps stealing glances of his notes. “I think.”

“No shit, huh? Even the king? Killed by that thing?” Mickey asks and points to an illustration depicting a guillotine.

“Yeah, his wife too,” Ian says. “I think…”

Mickey stares at him, eyebrows raised. Ian’s eyes flicker between him and his notes, seemingly thinking about what to say when the bell rings and the class is dismissed.

“Come on, I’ll show you where your Physics class is,” Ian says and grabs his stuff.

“Someday you will tell me why you keep adding ‘I guess’ and ‘I think’ to the end of your sentences, Gallagher,” Mickey mocks him as he follows him outside of the class room.

As promised Ian shows him to his next class and even helps provide the teacher’s name for his reference. Not without the expected exasperated eye roll, of course. Since Ian is taking AP Physics Mickey has to suffer through the double period by himself. He glares a classmate into handing over his textbook to him, but the class is just so dry and boring, he has a hard time paying attention. Even his teacher’s attempt to bring in the Superman catching Lois Lane dilemma doesn’t seem to spark anybody’s love for physics. What does it matter how much force it took to catch that chick? So she should have broken a couple of bones when she landed in his arms, what does Mickey care. He’ll start worrying about this once he has to go around catching damsels in distress falling from the sky. What an utter waste of time, Mickey thinks. Spending his time more productively, he finds himself doodling a caricature of a silly king’s head being cut off by a guillotine, his shocked wife standing next to him, an arrow leading to the guillotine marked with a question mark.

When class finally ends he remembers he also doesn’t know where his English class is and awkwardly stands in front of the room, wondering which direction to go.

“Really?” Ian asks, watching him from his locker across the hall.

“Tell me we share the next class,” Mickey says with a sigh, tired of having to search for his class rooms.

“Unfortunately,” Ian returns, entirely unimpressed by Mickey.

“Excuse me, M-Mickey,” he hears a meek voice call from behind him. He turns around to see the kid with the glasses who had sat at the table next to him in Physics timidly approaching. “C-Could I have my textbook b-back?”

Mickey follows his eye line to the book in his hand and then holds it up.

“Yeah, no, consider this Milkovich property now. I suggest you find a new copy.”

“B-But we have to r-return the books by the end of the year and my name i-is inside,” the kid finds the courage to say.

“Listen, pisspants-”

“Here you go, sorry about that,” Ian says as he snatches the book out of Mickey’s hand and returns it to the nervous boy who takes it gratefully and then practically runs away before Mickey can turn his attention from Ian to him.

“Did you just stick your nose into my business, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, faux laugh, scratching his eyebrow.

“Stop stealing just because it’s convenient and stop bullying everyone who looks weak to you,” Ian says and marches ahead.

“Oh, is that what this is now? You telling me what to do?” Mickey responds aggravated, following Ian and silently curses his long legs as he tries to keep up.

“You know what? Yes, it is,” Ian replies and turns to look at Mickey next to him. “You want my help, you’ll need to listen to me.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. How about fuck off, Gallagher?”

“Look, I’ll help tutor you, I’ll even show you around school, and I’ll go with you to the library later to get you your textbooks, in return just stop harassing people for sports,” Ian demands exasperated.

Mickey is pretty sure this is about towelhead from the store. He doesn’t think Ian knows what happened between his boss and Terry yet, otherwise he might have already dumped his ass, refusing to keep tutoring him. Yesterday’s security footage pops into his mind unwelcome and leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He bites the inside of his cheek, not looking at Ian.

“Whatever,” Mickey agrees and walks ahead.

“Mickey,” Ian calls after him, his voice having taken on a different type of exasperation now.

“What?” Mickey shouts irritated as he turns around.

“It’s this way,” he says and points toward the staircase.

LT ->\---------- ♡ ----------<\- LT

He gets somewhat lucky with English as the class has just started on a new book, meaning he is for once not behind. Though as Ian has reminded him, he will need to catch up on Lord of the Flies later for his final exams, since he missed the reading completely. But for now he has the pleasure of sitting through Shakespeare’s Macbeth like everyone else. Wonderful, he thinks.

Mickey has a free period after English whereas Ian heads off to AP Chemistry. Why the fuck Ian decided to take on all these AP classes is a mystery to Mickey. They meet again for Econ afterward. Or rather Ian picks him up again to lead him to the right class room. Somewhere on the way Ian drops a comment about bringing his varsity jacket for Mickey tomorrow, so he’ll be warm while he waits for Ian to dutifully pick him up like a good boyfriend, for which Mickey gracefully flips him off. They both have a free period next and Ian tells him to meet him after lunch break in front of the library, so he can help him get his books. They separate and while Mickey is famished he just quickly grabs a sandwich, _which he pays for_ , and makes his way outside as he still needs to take care of something.

“A teener for me and my friend wants an eightball,” the junior whispers, trying to act inconspicuously, glancing around the building they are currently hiding behind, his friend keeping a lookout from around the corner.

“The party’s been moved to after school. Meet me at the underpass at five,” Mickey replies. As outlined by Principal Allen’s stipulations, Mickey can’t deal on school grounds any longer. Now he needs to move his business somewhere else.

“What? Why? I need the stuff now. I can’t do after school,” the guy says annoyed.

“Can’t do now,” Mickey replies, fed up with the situation more than anyone else.

“Dude, just give me the coke already. What is this? Since when do I need to buy your shit outside of school?”

“Since I said so, bucko. Do you want your stuff or not?” Mickey responds, grinding his teeth in irritation.

“Yeah, but you’re not the only dealer, Milkovich. And if I have to get my stuff outside, I might just as well buy it from somebody else,” he replies annoyed.

“Look, just meet me later and I’ll get you whatever you want. Coke, E, speedballs, good ol’ weed? Anything you want, I’ve got it.”

“Whatever, Milkovich,” the guy sneers and heads off.

“Hey! Wait! Fuck…” Mickey calls after him. He kicks some pebbles away in frustration.

He needs to move his product soon and he can’t have his regular buyers opt out only because he has to change venue now.

“Damnit!” He curses as he rounds the building.

Mickey almost jumps when he sees Principal Allen leaning against the brick wall around the corner, smoking a cigarette.

“Troubles?” He asks as he blows out the smoke.

“What the fu- Are you following me or why do I keep seeing your face everywhere I go nowadays?”

“Fate?” Principal Allen suggests, amused by his own thoughts as per usual.

If it’s fate, fate sucks ass so far, Mickey thinks. In addition to having Principal Allen on his back, fate also seemed to have sent his way a world blackout, weirdo grannies, and worst of all a Gallagher as his tutor.

“Right,” Mickey says mockingly.

“How is it going? Are you getting used to the world of academics?”

“Well, I learned that some entitled royal pricks get their heads chopped off when they find themselves confronted by rebels,” Mickey replies, smiling derisively.

“Ah! ‘L’insurrection est le plus saint des devoirs’, _”_ he says excitedly. Mickey already regrets engaging. “’Insurrection is the holiest of duties’ said during the French Revolution by a man who helped our very own ancestors fight for their independence here, before he returned to his own home country to try and achieve the same there.”

“Okay, great, thanks for the lesson. If you don’t mind, I will go jerk off now to these inspiring words,” Mickey says and starts to walk away.

“As long as you don’t do it on school grounds,” Principal Allen helpfully points out.

“Funny. You’re a real sack of giggles, you know that?” Mickey comments annoyed. “I would like to remind you that we have a deal, so you better keep your mouth shut.”

“I’m not the one who needs reminding it seems,” he says, exhaling another drag of smoke. Great, now Mickey is itching for his own cigarette, which he also can no longer have on school grounds.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve been dragging my ass to class all morning,” Mickey complains.

“You missed first period,” Principal Allen says.

“What? No- I didn’t miss first period. I was just a little late,” Mickey replies.

“No tardiness, I thought I was clear,” Principal Allen states, pointing his cigarette at him.

“I couldn’t find the damn class room,” Mickey exclaims aggravated, but reigns it in right away as Principal Allen is the one person he cannot afford to antagonize. “Look, it won’t happen again. Ian is showing me around.”

And while he mentions him, he happens to see him at the other end of the school yard, curiously watching him. That Gallagher better not be putting his nose in what doesn’t concern him.

“I’m glad you two are getting along. I was a bit reluctant to admit Ian Gallagher to the program, but I’m happy to hear this is working out after all.”

“What does that mean? Why didn’t you want him in the program?” Mickey asks, stepping closer to Principal Allen.

“Peter?” A shrill voice calls from around the building.

“Son of a biscuit!” Principal Allen hisses and hurriedly flicks the cigarette away, waving the smoke off right before a petite lady in a knitted wool skirt rounds the corner. Mickey might not know all teachers at this school, but he sure as hell remembers this one. She was the one who stuck him with that absurd arson allegation.

“Peter, what are you doing here? I was looking all over for you. We are not done with the quarterly expense report- Mickey Milkovich?” She says taken aback when she sees him. “What a pleasant surprise you made it to school.”

“Well, you know me, always good for a surprise,” he says, facetious smile in place.

“I remember,” she comments pointedly as she adjusts her glasses. “Will I be seeing you this afternoon in class?”

Mickey didn’t even know he had a class with her and it must be showing on his face.

“Of course he will, Miranda. Mickey here has devoted himself to his studies and is eagerly looking forward to get started on your famous stochastics headscratchers!” Principal Allen chimes in and steps closer to Mickey, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Math?” Mickey whispers.

“Oh boy…” He mutters as he bobs his head and moves away. “You were saying about the quarterlies, Miranda?”

“Right, the expense report…” She says, gathering herself, when she notices the cigarette butt on the ground. “Is that- Smoking on school grounds? Who is responsible for this?”

Mickey smirks. For once he isn’t in trouble and the delight he takes from seeing Principal Allen squirm is outright delicious.

“Ah, well, you see,” Principal Allen says. “I was just stretching my legs for a bit when I saw Mickey smoking. The outrage I felt, Miranda,” he states, shaking his head in disappointment. “I was just in the middle of reminding him again of our school rules.”

“What the actual fuck?” Mickey retorts stupefied.

“This is unacceptable. I expect to see you in detention this afternoon,” Mrs. Daughenbaugh replies scandalized.

“No, hey, I wasn’t the one smo-”

“I’ve heard enough, Mickey. No more smoking on school grounds. I hope we’re clear on this,” he says sternly. He steps closer, his back turned on Mrs. Daughenbaugh, and starts to whisper. “Next time, don’t be late.”

“Are you fucking kiddin-” Mickey tries to voice his outrage.

“Shall we, Miranda? May I just say that is a lovely wool cardigan. Did you knit this yourself too?” Principal Allen ignores him and leads Mrs. Daughenbaugh away.

Mickey watches them leave, absolutely stunned.

“That son of a biscuit…”

LT ->\---------- ♡ ----------<\- LT

Marching ahead he shoves the door open, ignoring the startled yelp from a girl who was just about to exit the library.

“I see you’re in a good mood,” Ian comments dryly from behind.

“Don’t start, Gallagher,” Mickey barks back while heading to the counter.

“Anything to do with your little meeting with the principal during lunch break?”

“I said, don’t start, didn’t I?” Mickey raises his arms up and shakes his head in irritation.

“Is this part of your business I’m not allowed to pry in?” Ian keeps asking as he settles next to him in front of the counter.

“Yes and you’re prying. Stop,” Mickey says, turning around to face him while they wait for the part-time staff to finish shelving her books.

“You got in trouble with the principal?” Ian further pries after a beat.

“You’re pissing me off, Gallagher,” Mickey replies in a sing-song voice.

“You were already pissed off when you arrived. In fact you being pissed off is the status quo. You talking to the principal is new though. So? What gives?” Ian says, eyebrows raised curiously.

Why does nobody fear him anymore? Where did it all go wrong?

“You wanna know what we talked about?” Mickey returns challengingly. Ian just looks at him expectantly. “He was about to tell me why he didn’t want you in the program.”

Suddenly, the carefree attitude promptly turns into avoidance as Ian turns away, checking how long the librarian still needs.

“Wanna chime in here? Based on your reaction there must be a juicy reason why he was reluctant to take you on,” Mickey says snidely.

“I get it. I won’t ask anymore,” Ian replies, still not looking at him.

“No, come on, we are in the middle of sharing now, aren’t we? Why didn’t he want you? _What gives?_ ”

“Leave it alone, Mickey. Your business is your business, mine is mine,” Ian responds, relieved to see the librarian is finally on her way to the counter.

“As long as we agree on that,” Mickey shoots back satisfied.

“Gentlemen, with what can I help you today?” She asks cheerfully.

“My classmate here happened to be sick on the first day back to school and any subsequent day after, so he didn’t have the chance to check out any textbooks yet. Could he get them now?” Ian explains with an unmistakable underlying tone of sarcasm.

Mickey glares at him.

“Really?”

“Would _you_ like to explain to her why five weeks into the school year you still don’t have one single book?” Ian asks expectantly, returning Mickey’s glare.

They stare at each other with narrowed eyes, neither backing off until Mickey just scoffs and turns to the lady behind the counter.

“I still don’t have a single fucking book, because I haven’t been to a single fucking class, because I didn’t give a single fuck. But now I do, so can I, _please_ , get my books now?”

Not being accustomed to this much cussing on school grounds the librarian has grown stiff, her eyes wide, mouth agape as a result of Mickey’s candor. She nods stupefied and starts typing something into her computer.

Ian bursts out laughing, shaking his head in amusement. He tries to apologize to the woman when he can’t seem to reign it in, but it is swallowed by another fit of laughter.

Mickey snorts in reaction and answers the woman’s questions about his name and classes, while Ian is still calming down next to him. The librarian prints out the list and then heads off with a cart to collect the books.

“You done now?” Mickey scoffs amused.

“Yeah…” Ian replies, bobbing his head in affirmation as to emphasize this. To whose benefit Mickey is unsure.

“It wasn’t that funny,” he points out dryly.

“Yes, it was. You all earnest about wanting to get your school books, it’s really fucking weird,” Ian replies.

“What? You don’t think I can be interested in Capespierre and co? You think you’re the only intellect here, Mr. Smartypants?”

“Yeah, you’re a real intellect, _Cape_ spierre,” Ian mocks him and dodges easily when Mickey throws a cardboard standup from the counter at him in retaliation. “No, please, I’m dying to hear what your thoughts are on the French Revolution,” he needles him on, laughing.

“My thoughts are that the French had the right idea when they started chopping off the heads of people who were a huge pain in the ass,” Mickey retorts, feigning to hit him in the liver.

The whole thing quickly develops into them goading each other on, playfully pretending to take a go at the other, until a polite clearing of a throat behind them puts a stop to their shenanigans.

“Here you go,” the woman says and goes on to explain apologetically, “but I’m afraid we’ve got every book available except World History Vol. 3. Some students have not returned their books last year and so we are a few copies short at the moment. Due to the limited budget we have we cannot afford to restock them.”

“See, that’s what happens when you steal your classmate’s textbooks, Mickey,” Ian points out and then turns to the librarian. “It’s fine. We are in the same class. I can share my book.”

“That’s lovely,” she says and then looks hesitantly over to Mickey. “Please don’t steal your classmate’s books.”

Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I got the memo.”

Ian chuckles next to him and this time it’s Mickey that glares at him unimpressed.

“Anything else I can do for you?” The woman asks.

“Actually, I was wondering whether you had two copies of Macbeth we could check out as well,” Ian inquires quietly.

“As you know, the school requires students to purchase these types of reading material as our library only stocks textbooks. Sometimes we happen to get our hands on abandoned or non-claimed literature from the lost and found, but I’m afraid Lord of the Flies was a fluke, honey,” she replies as she looks at Ian sympathetically.

“That’s alright, thanks anyway,” he says hurriedly, grabs half the textbooks, and walks off.

Curiously, he looks between Ian’s retreating back and the librarian and then just takes the other half of the books, following Ian outside.

Quietly, they walk to Mickey’s locker, Ian’s mind seemingly occupied by something.

“About our study session later,” Mickey says, startling Ian out of his reverie. “Can we move it an hour?”

“Why?” Ian asks curiously.

Mickey debates telling him off for prying again, but quiet frankly he doesn’t feel like it. What they have going on right now is a precarious truce. He doesn’t really want to ruin that. On top of that Gallagher seems like an alright dude.

“Got detention,” Mickey mutters annoyed while he stores his textbooks inside his locker.

He is ready to change his opinion about Ian when the latter starts laughing.

“Sorry,” Ian says snorting. “So, what you’re telling me is that this is basically your first day of school and you already got stuck with detention?”

“Hey, I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent, alright? That bastard principal duped me!” Mickey retorts outraged.

“Principal Allen?” Ian asks dubiously.

“He’s not what he looks like, okay? He’s a crazy, conniving, manipulative son of a bitch! He’s fooling everyone with his nice act! Trust me, he’s the worst,” he rants emphatically.

“Sure,” Ian responds, chuckling.

“I mean it!”

“Okay.”

“Oh, fuck off, Gallagher,” Mickey retorts, closes his locker, and walks past him, not able to resist the urge to shoulder bump Ian.

“Be nice or I’ll report you to Principal Allen,” Ian shouts after him. Mickey just flips him off without looking.

LT ->\---------- ♡ ----------<\- LT

For the remaining time of their free period they go over the Spanish vocabulary together again in preparation for the test this afternoon. They get a little sidetracked when they find themselves in a heated argument about who’d emerge the winner in a fight between Seagal and Van Damme. Ian has absolutely no clue what he is talking about. Mickey stands behind Seagal all the way.

During Calculus Mickey is actually being called on to his and everyone’s surprise. Teachers usually used to ignore him, whether because he intimidated them or because they saw no point engaging somebody in class who isn’t the least bit interested. Mr. Sanchez doesn’t seem to share that sentiment. What isn’t a surprise in the very least is, that he gave the wrong answer of course. But Mickey entirely blames Ian for that, since he had stolen a glance at Ian’s notes and shared his result with the class. Ian pulls at his hoodie harshly when he was about to point that out to the teacher and so he shuts his mouth and dutifully writes down the correct equation when Ian prompts him to do so.

They part again when Ian drops him off at Statistics and heads to Algebra II himself. Mrs. Daughenbaugh is actually surprised to see him in class, even though Principal Allen had told her he’d be attending, and apparently she shares the same teaching philosophy as Mr. Sanchez and keeps shooting him questions. Math teachers, he curses quietly to himself. The double period must have been the longest ninety minutes of his life and he hated every minute of it. But before he can finally leave, Mrs. Daughenbaugh keeps him for a few minutes only to helpfully remind him of detention after school. By the time he meets up with Ian to head to their final class of the day he is utterly exhausted. Had school always been this fucking annoying? No wonder he never attended. He’d take juvie any time over high school.

In Spanish Mickey remembers six out of twenty vocabularies during the test and only manages to correctly spell one. Ian returns his test after peer grading it an F, having sketched a stickman with his head hung low and another patting him on his shoulder with the comment _¡Que tengas más su_ _e_ _rte la próxima vez!_ When asked what that means, he just tells Mickey to look it up later. Ian himself scores a solid B+ and Mickey can’t resist drawing a middle finger next to it which Ian finds amusing enough to get reprimanded for by Mrs. Clarkson.

“About later, I need to watch my siblings. Mind studying at my place?” Ian asks quietly while another classmate is reading from the textbook out loud.

“Sure, everything beats that depressing shoe box of a room,” Mickey agrees easily.

“By the way, how come you have a key to the guidance counselor’s office anyway?” Ian asks, referring to Mickey locking up yesterday after their first session.

“I just do,” Mickey mutters brusquely.

Ian eyes him for a moment, face unreadable, before he lets out a soft sigh and moves a little closer to Mickey to make sure nobody can overhear them.

“This isn’t me prying, but it seems pretty clear that in some way you are forced to do this and while I promise not to dig deeper, I told you I would help you, so I will. So, no need to be so defensive.”

Mickey stares at him, feeling a little caught off-guard. What Ian is basically saying is, that he can trust him.

“I thought you hated me?” Mickey says, thinking back on pretty much all their interactions so far.

“I hate that you keep stealing from the store I work in and that you keep antagonizing my boss, but you’re surprisingly easy to talk to and I’m slowly beginning to understand how your brain works,” Ian replies nonchalantly and shrugs.

This isn’t usually the reaction he has on people. Mickey is a bit flustered. But he supposes his study partner having turned around on him, isn’t the worst thing to happen.

“You’re not as bad as I thought you’d be either,” Mickey reluctantly admits. “For a Gallagher.”

“Coming from a Milkovich, that’s rich,” Ian scoffs amused and Mickey doesn’t know why, but he can’t help but mirror the grin on Ian’s face.

LT ->\---------- ♡ ----------<\- LT

When Mickey finally makes it through the torrent rain to the Gallagher’s after detention, he can’t believe this is supposed to be his new normal. He spent his whole day stuck in class and now that he finally got out he even meets up with somebody to study _more_. But if he is being honest with himself, today was somewhat fun too. He can’t remember having spent this much time with one person that wasn’t his family and that he didn’t want to murder after having been confined together for that amount of time. Class still sucks ass, but he was never disillusioned enough to think otherwise. He just needs to somehow make it through the remainder of the school year and by some miracle graduate and this nightmare will all be behind him. The only question is how is he possibly going to manage to graduate? He was completely out of his element the entire day and if the vocab test is any indication of his future, he’ll collect Fs throughout all his classes. It all just seems impossible. As it stands he banks it all on one card. He just really hopes the answer to his question lies behind this door.

He is about to knock when he notices the door is ajar, so he decides to just let himself in. Mickey is immediately greeted by the shrill shrieks and blaring cries of half a dozen children running and jumping around the living room. One boy is playing around with the remotes to the stereo and TV, blasting pop music through the speakers while at the same time landing on a news channel airing an expert tank currently in discussion about the blackout, one toddler is precariously crawling on top of the couch’s back rest while two other kids are sitting on the floor behind the couch chanting for the little girl to fall, and Mickey is pretty sure he’s seen another child actually running around with scissors.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Mickey mutters.

“Who the fuck are you?” A boy a lot older than the rest of the kids with braces and freckles sprinkled around his nose, a baseball bat resting on his shoulder, and the meanest smirk Mickey has ever seen on a person asks, scrutinizing him suspiciously.

“Mickey,” he answers as he looks around for Ian or at least some kind of adult. He sees a teenage girl with red hair standing in what looks to be the entrance to the kitchen, heatedly arguing with somebody he can’t make out from his vantage point.

“That supposed to mean something to me?” The boy asks lazily.

“Milkovich,” he adds, humoring the kid. “Is Ian around?”

“Milkovich?” He asks. The kid’s eyes almost bug out. “No way! You’re a Milkovich? Never seen an actual Milkovich. I’d thought you’d be taller.”

Did the kid think he and his family were actually unicorns or why is he acting like he’s stepped right out of a magic trick?

“And I thought pediatric psychiatric asylums were a myth,” Mickey retorts.

“What?” The kid asks like he didn’t understand a word he just said.

“Hey, you made it,” Ian shouts over the blaring music as he walks into the living room. He takes the remotes from the boy and turns off the stereo and TV while at the same time catching the boy with the scissors, safely disarming him.

Now that the music has been turned off, the blaring noise of a fire alarm can be heard throughout the ground floor.

“Debs!”

“What?!” The teenage girl shouts back aggravated.

“Shelly and Lacey are trying to kill Betsy again,” Ian says, helping the toddler down from the couch.

The red-head girl lets out a long suffering sigh and then stomps over to the two kids who had been cheering for the toddler to injure itself.

“I told you, no killing Betsy. No cake for you today,” she says matter-of-factly.

“We are not done talking, Debbie!” A young brunette woman rounds the corner from the kitchen, another toddler attached to her hip.

“Yes, yes, we are, Fiona! I don’t care what you have to say! It is my life and I get to make my own decisions!” The teenager shouts back.

“Debbie!”

“No, leave me alone!” She screams, pulling Shelly and Lacey off Betsy before they could stab their fingers in her eyes.

The brunette rakes her hand through her hair, visibly frustrated and then spots Mickey at the entrance.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s Mickey,” Ian introduces, making his way to him through the war field that consists of abandoned toys, clothes, and various other paraphernalia.

“Milkovich,” the boy with the baseball bat adds.

She looks at Ian in disbelief.

“Really, Ian? You bring a Milkovich into our house? A Milkovich?” She says, shaking her head, clearly unhappy. Mickey makes a random gesture, wondering what the fuck that is supposed to mean.

Fed up with the beeping of the fire alarm, she snatches the baseball bat from the boy next to him and takes a swing at the offending device in the kitchen, neatly knocking it down, effectively shutting it up.

“He’s my study partner, Fiona,” Ian replies and continues with a weary sigh. “He’ll behave, I promise.”

“And what does that mean?” Mickey demands to know.

“I want you to frisk him for guns,” she says, pointing at him with the bat. “He does not get to step into this house with a gun!” She shouts from the kitchen.

“I don’t mind taking care of your gun while you’re in the house,” the freckled boy chimes in and Mickey starts to feel a bit uneasy by the sparkle in his eyes upon the prospect of getting his hands on a gun.

“Carl, upstairs, homework, now!” The brunette shouts from the kitchen and the boy rolls his eyes in response, reluctantly trudging up to the second floor.

“That’s my brother, Carl,” Ian says, pointing at the boy’s retreating back and then turns to the teenage girl, currently playing with the homicidal duo. “Debbie, my sister.”

“I still haven’t heard you frisk him!” Echoes from the kitchen.

“And that’s my older sister, Fiona, and my little brother, Liam,” he finishes.

“Real pleasure…” Mickey replies, still trying to process into what kind of alternate dimension he just stepped.

“Ian!” His older sister shouts angrily.

Ian sighs and rolls his eyes and Mickey is actually happy that he apparently isn’t the only one to elicit that kind of reaction from him.

“Did you bring any weapons?” He asks, indulging his sister.

“Does my switchblade count?”

“Make him leave it outside on the porch!”

He sighs again, looking from the kitchen to Mickey expectantly.

“You’re kidding,” Mickey says.

“Not unless you want to spend the time studying outside,” he replies, gesturing to the heavy rain.

He obediently retrieves his switchblade from his boot and then stashes it out of sight on the porch under an upturned heavy pot just in case some of the kids wander outside and see it. Especially in case it’s that brother of Ian’s with the fondness for firearms.

“I don’t mind if you pat me down, but I’m gonna draw the line at anal cavity search, just to be clear,” Mickey says when he steps back into the house.

“That’s okay. I trust you,” Ian replies amused and leads him to the kitchen.

“You got no future at the TSA, man. I can already tell you that,” he says and follows.

Mickey finds himself in a worn down kitchen and dining room, the smell of something delicious coming from the stove permeating the small room. On his way to the table as he shrugs out of his wet jacket, he almost trips on a dirty laundry pile by the washing machine.

“So, you all live here?” Mickey asks while trying to unhook his boot from a sweater.

“What? No, Debbie is running a day care, the kids should get picked up in…” Ian replies, looking at his watch.

“Ten minutes!” Debbie helpfully provides from the living room.

“Ten minutes,” Ian repeats as he takes his little brother from Fiona, so she can finish cooking. “Wait, did you think I had this many siblings?”

“I thought you had more,” Mickey admits, sitting down at the table.

“For real?” Ian asks.

“Lots of rumors circling around the name Gallagher,” Mickey replies, shrugging.

“Yeah, I bet. Those PTA moms are spreading gossip worse than wildfires. I swear every time I go to one of their little _voluntary_ meetings I am this close to strangling one of them,” Fiona chimes in, gesticulating how thin her patience runs whenever she is in a room with the other guardians.

The rumor about the parents not being around is true then, Mickey thinks. Kind of the same situation his family was in over the last few years and if he is being honest, Terry’s return does not equal a caretaker being back in the house, so they’re still pretty much in the same boat. Only that nobody bothers to go to PTA meetings in his house.

“Beer?” Ian asks, standing in front of the fridge.

“You bet,” Mickey replies, gladly having a beer after the day he had.

“Ian,” Fiona says, turning toward her brother, her voice clearly disapproving.

“Don’t,” Ian cuts her off and grabs two bottles of beer out of the fridge.

“Did you already-”

“Yes,” Ian says, his patience audibly reaching his limit.

Worriedly, Fiona watches Ian sit down at the kitchen table, handing over one beer to Mickey and opening the other for himself. It’s clear she wants to say more, but based on Ian’s dismissal, it looks like she doesn’t know how.

“Dinner is ready,” she says instead. Grabbing the cutlery and plates out of the drawers and cupboards, she looks over to Mickey, eyeing him for a moment.

Now that he sees and smells the fresh pot of Mac and Cheese his stomach violently demands his attention and he can’t help but swallow when his mouth begins to water. He did only have that sandwich during lunch break today.

Fiona sighs and picks up another set of dishes. The siblings make quick work of setting the table and within a minute Fiona is putting down the pot of Mac and Cheese in front of them.

“Carl! Debbie! Dinner!” She shouts.

“Not hungry!” Debbie screams back from the living room, a lot louder than theoretically necessary for that distance. Fiona just closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

“Can’t right now! Busy!” Comes a voice echoing down the staircase.

“He can’t be busy with his homework,” Ian states quietly.

“Homework, yeah, right,” Fiona agrees. “I need to get to work now. Can you make sure he isn’t burning down our house with whatever he’s currently busy with? And get some food in those two as well?”

“Yeah, I’m on it,” Ian replies, already filling the toddler’s plate with Mac and Cheese.

She thanks him and then collects loose change from the kitchen counter and drawers, counting quietly the amount in her palm.

“You got enough for the fare?” Ian asks, already reaching into his pocket, but Fiona waves him off, placing her hand on his arm.

“I got it, at least enough for the ride to the club. And I’m getting my paycheck later, so I’m covered for my way back home. Between my pay and the tips I can finally buy some of your school supplies,” she says cheerily.

“I told you I got it covered. I don’t need any money. I’ve got my shifts at the store,” Ian replies.

“I know, I know,” Fiona responds as she slips into her jacket. “But you already insisted on covering your own-” she says, stopping when she sees Ian squirming and throws Mickey a nervous side glance. “Stuff. It’s too much. We will all chip in.”

“Fiona,” Ian replies, a definite edge to his voice.

“We’ll talk later,” she says, getting her purse and moving over to Ian and Liam. She peppers the toddler with kisses, telling him how much she loves him and then mostly to mess with Ian does the same thing to him.

“Fi…” Ian grumbles annoyed.

“Bye, Carl! Bye, Debbie!” She shouts, not getting much of a response. She sighs and then turns to the back door, turning her attention to Mickey while she walks out. “Ian said you’ll behave. If you don’t and in any way harm my kids, I will do the same thing to you I did to the fire alarm earlier. Got it?”

“Message received,” Mickey replies, partially intimidated and partially impressed. He understands now from where Ian gets his ballsy attitude.

He watches her leave and then turns to Ian, eyebrows raised.

“Your sister is…”

“Protective?” Ian replies.

“I was gonna say scary,” Mickey says, huffing.

During the next fifteen minutes the guardians trickle in to pick up their children from the day care and the house finally quietens down. Ian has gone upstairs to check on his brother and bring him a plate, leaving Mickey with Liam at the table. Ian had encouraged him to eat spoon by spoon until Liam decided he had enough and would much rather play around with his food instead. Mickey doesn’t grasp why; that Mac and Cheese is fucking delicious. Since Mandy has been sent to juvie they haven’t had any proper home cooked meals anymore. Mickey is absolutely blissed-out at the moment.

The moody teenager trots in, picking up her plate to shovel food on it and then sits down next to where Ian was occupying the seat.

“Thought you weren’t hungry,” Mickey can’t help but point out.

“I wasn’t in the mood to be further harassed by Fiona,” she says, picking on her food.

“Oh, yeah? What’d she do?” He asks more to make conversation than coming from genuine interest.

“I have started getting my period and I have decided that I want to have sex now too. Fiona completely flipped out, like I can’t be in charge of my own decisions,” she explains lazily and Mickey badly chokes on a macaroni. “I mean when will she let me live my own life? She says I’m just a little girl, but I’ve been filling out this past summer. In a few months I will get a real bra. So, I am asking you when will I be finally considered a woman?”

Mickey’s choking has outright turned into a coughing fit at this point. He desperately reaches for the water and when he’s emptied his own, he reaches for Ian’s as he can’t seem to get his lungs to settle down.

“Everything alright?” Ian asks, coming down the stairs.

“Nothing is alright,” Debbie says, sighing. She gets up, takes her plate, and then trots into the living room to plop down in front of the TV.

Ian looks at him worriedly and fills up his glass again with tap water, handing it to Mickey.

“She tell you what she and Fiona were fighting about?” Ian asks in sympathy.

Mickey nods and finally seems to recover.

“Is she always this…”

“Outspoken?”

“I was gonna say direct,” Mickey says, his throat throbbing painfully.

Ian huffs amused and then starts clearing the table. He tells Mickey to get started on homework already while he cleans Liam up and does the dishes. Looking at Ian going through his routine, it seems like he’s been doing this forever. Taking care of his younger siblings, helping his older sister out since he was able to contribute. Surviving in a shitty neighborhood, to be on one’s own, with parents that don’t give a fuck or aren’t around any longer. Scrambling for money, scrambling for food. Ian’s a real South Side kid, just like Mickey.

“What?” Ian asks when he catches Mickey staring.

“Nothin’,” Mickey replies, shaking his head and clearing his throat. Which still hurts like a motherfucker.

“I would offer you something for your throat, but we haven’t had any cough drops in the house, since Carl smashed the last batch into shards and sold them as ‘crystal meth’,” Ian says, shrugging apologetically.

“I’m beginning to think, that most rumors about you guys might be true after all,” Mickey retorts.

“Maybe a few,” Ian replies, laughing. “How is it going?” He asks, nodding toward Mickey’s notes.

“I took a stab at my statistics question, but I have a feeling that 348.33% probability seems unlikely?”

“Depends on the question?” Ian says optimistically.

Ian helps him with his math homework while doing his own. In the end even Ian isn’t sure if they got the answer right, but 17% sounded a lot more likely than Mickey’s previous guess, so that’s what he puts down. They move over to their English homework and find themselves in a dilemma.

“How are we supposed to write an essay about the play without having a copy of the play?” Ian says, scratching his temple with a pen.

“Internet?” Mickey suggests.

“We don’t have internet,” Ian responds, shaking his head.

From what he has witnessed so far from the Gallagher’s living situation, it doesn’t particularly come as a surprise that they are not paying for expensive internet access. If the Milkoviches weren’t piggybacking on their neighbor’s wifi, they wouldn’t have internet either.

“We gotta buy a copy soon,” Ian says, staring at his fidgeting hands in his lap. He gets that spaced out look from earlier today again, seemingly deep in thought and unhappy. If Mickey had to guess, he’d interpret it as frustration. “Nothing we can do now. Let’s just explain to Mrs. Strahovsky we don’t have a copy yet and call it a day,” Ian suggests despondently.

“I think last year’s reading requirement was also Macbeth,” Mickey says.

“So?” Ian asks distractedly.

“Might be wrong, but I think your brother wrote a paper for me about Macbeth,” Mickey points out.

“So?” Ian asks again, but turns around to give Mickey his full attention.

“ _So_ ,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. “He must have a copy, right?”

Ian lights up upon the realization and jumps up from his seat.

“Of course! It must be in the attic along with his other school stuff,” Ian says. “Help me go look for it?”

“Sure,” Mickey replies and follows him up the stairs.

The second floor seems relatively straightforward. Just a few bedrooms to the left and right and a laundry chute in the middle, which he now knows leads to the kitchen downstairs. Walking down the hall, they stop in front of a dingy bathroom and what must be the boys room by the looks of it.

“You share with your brothers?” He asks, glancing inside.

“Yeah, it’s a bit tight,” Ian answers, pulling open the attic hatch.

“How do you manage to rub one out?”

No privacy all the time, it must be a pain to get a good jerk off session going, Mickey thinks.

“By waiting for your brothers to bring friends over and closing the door on them,” his little brother says as he appears in the doorway, slamming the door shut. A few seconds later they hear loud hip hop music coming from the room.

Ian groans and shoots Mickey a miserable look.

“It’s been a nightmare since Carl has figured out what to do with his dick,” Ian explains, climbing the ladder. “We had hoped Lip would be at college by now. Then I could have taken his room, but my stupid brother never sent his application forms.”

“I thought he was this, like, brainiac who’d cure cancer or some shit,” Mickey says while holding the rickety ladder down. “You sure this thing is safe?”

“Should be fine,” Ian replies distractedly, rummaging around the boxes. “And, yeah, he practically threw his whole life away for a chick who he believed was pregnant with his child, but, surprise, turned out to be very little Lip Gallagher and very much Timmy Wong. Not that it couldn’t have been any number of guys that would have made a prospective father. She slept with half of South Side. Among them our very own dad, did you know that?”

“I’ve seen the video,” Mickey says and then shrugs when Ian shoots him a look. “What? I didn’t jerk off to it,” he adds to his defense. “So, what’s Einstein doing now that he can’t play house with the psycho bitch?”

“Mostly?” Ian replies, pulling another box closer, making the ladder jostle ominously when he does. Mickey reaches up to grip Ian’s leg with one hand, eyeing the death contraption suspiciously. “Moping around. When he isn’t out finding creative ways to make money, which seem to always end up with him getting a shiner from some guy or another.”

“How the great have fallen,” Mickey can’t help but comment. He never was much of a fan.

“It’s a Gallagher thing,” Ian says, sighing. “We are pretty much destined to self-destruct at some point in our lives,” he muses out loud and then continues to mumble quietly. “And by the looks of it I’m next.”

“What does that mean?” Mickey asks, trying to make sense of Ian’s comment, but without being able to see his face, he doesn’t have much to go on.

“Nothing,” Ian deflects, obviously having slipped something he hadn’t wanted to share. Mickey wants to follow up, but Ian cuts his attempt off when he, suddenly, lets out a cheer. “Found it! One copy of Shakespeare’s Macbe _-_ ”

The battered wooden step Ian is standing on decides to give out in that moment, making him slip and fall. There’s not much Mickey can do in the split moment they realize Ian is falling and so he pretty much gets knocked over, hitting the ground, Ian landing on top of him, _hard._

“Fuck…” Mickey grunts out, both of them groaning in pain.

And then Mickey almost jerks away in shock when his hand lands on Ian’s hip, having slipped under his shirt, and the familiar prickling sensation started coursing through his body. The same earth-shattering experience he had made only a couple of days ago on that rooftop, when the world turned dark and Mickey was numb and lost to that vast plane of nothingness. Until something inside him flared up and spiked throughout his entire body as if trying to reach out, demanding attention, demanding to be let go.

Demanding to connect.

The same trickling sensation is now spreading from Ian’s skin to the tips of his fingers, wandering along the palm of his hand and pulsing throughout his entire body. At first it’s as violent as it was back on that roof. Like a valve suddenly releasing at the highest pressure, rushing through, flowing into the deepest crevices until it’s as if it has seemingly reached every cell in his body and Mickey can feel the connection gradually settle between them, almost as if it were sentient. Like a blanket gently floating into place. It’s soft and warm and soothing and completely steals his breath. And while this intrusive foreign sensation should feel exactly that, foreign, it also feels familiar. As if it’s just another part of himself. Of himself and Ian. He can’t explain how, but it’s as if he can vividly feel this thing between them not only sink into the depths of his body but also Ian’s. As if it were an extension of his own reaching inside Ian, connecting them.

He hears a gasp above him and his eyes snap up to Ian’s, seeing the same astounded reaction mirrored. And as certain as he knows that he can feel this link between them in Ian, he knows that Ian can feel it inside Mickey as well. Without conscious thought he lets his fingers glide along the small of Ian’s back and senses the connection move with him. Like a magnet attached to its counterpart. The tingling sensation flares and dulls at times. Feels content in some places and more demanding in others. Ian looks at him, eyes wide, as amazed by this thing as Mickey is.

With baited breath, he watches Ian reach for his hand. Hesitating, Ian hovers over where Mickey’s hand is resting on his side. He swallows nervously and his eyes flicker up to Mickey’s who is just as stunned. After a moment of hesitancy Ian lets his long fingers tentatively brush over the back of Mickey’s hand and Mickey can immediately feel this link between them take hold, almost curiously settling in the newly connected part of their bodies. This time it’s Mickey who gasps and watches in curious fascination how the tips of Ian’s fingers gliding over his skin translates into the prickling sensation softly rippling through their hands.

“What the…” Ian exhales speechlessly.

Ian’s movements become bolder, curious to explore further. He envelops Mickey’s hand in his, adding pressure to his touch, letting the connection trickle back and forth between them, almost chasing it. His fingers lead the way around Mickey’s wrist, traveling up the bare skin of his lower arm, dipping into the crook of his elbow, and then coming to a stop after sneaking his fingertips under Mickey’s rolled up sleeve. All the while playfully experimenting with their preternatural tie. Softly, Ian brushes his thumb along the crook of Mickey’s arm, making the tingling ripple to his cues, like a wave gently dancing back and forth under his ministrations. He snaps his eyes back to Mickey’s, the fascination evident in the way he looks at him. The look Ian gives him and the way his touch subtly shifts has Mickey’s blood rush to his cheeks and his breathing stutter. He’s suddenly hyper aware of their position, Mickey still pinned under Ian, their bodies pressed against each other. He feels the warmth coming from Ian even through their layers of clothes. Smells the subtle aroma of soap drifting down. Ian’s touch leaves him feeling exposed and coupled with the way Ian stares down at him makes Mickey fight for air.

He shies away, harshly pushing Ian off him, scrambles to his feet, and runs away.


	5. Chapter 5

Mickey fights for air, his lungs burning in protest after having run as far from the Gallaghers as he could. Exhausted, he doubles over, holding himself up by his knees, trying to catch his breath. He can’t help check the sky, expecting to see the black carpet rolling over Chicago any minute. What happened at the Gallagher house was almost exactly the same freak experience he’d made on that roof. But how the fuck could that be? And why did it happen again with Ian? Mickey doesn’t understand what’s happening.

Pushing himself off his knees, he brushes his hand over his face, utterly lost. Looking at his hand, his mind immediately flashes back to what just happened. The same hand that had rested on the warm patch of skin at Ian’s side when this impossible sensation had spread inside their bodies and rendered them wholly baffled.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Mickey pants.

His mind insists that what they’ve experienced couldn’t possibly have happened, but the sensation is still so freshly imprinted inside of him, he can feel the phantom tingling ripple through his arm. All along where Ian had let his fingers brush over his skin, eliciting the reaction between their bodies. He knows he didn’t imagine it, but at the same time he can’t explain it in any way. And most inconceivable: Why Gallagher? Mickey tries to recall the past couple of days if he had touched anyone else. Maybe he has this freak reaction with anyone he’ll touch. But then he remembers he had spent the first night after the blackout with his brothers and he had definitely been in physical contact with both of them. Not to mention the weirdo granny from the station who had reached for his hand or Terry’s grip on his neck when they had watched the security footage. Judging by Ian’s reaction this happened to him for the first time with Mickey as well. So, is this just a fluke or is there a reason why it’s just them? Because from what Mickey has gathered from the reports and speculations across the world based on the blackout none seemed to have ever mentioned people spontaneously metaphysically fusing together.

He cannot emphasize enough how his life has turned into a crackpot clusterfuck.

“Mickey!”

Mickey jumps startled and turns around to see Terry and his brothers having pulled up next to him on the road.

“Get in!” Terry bellows from the passenger seat. “Shipment is ready. Help us pick it up.”

“Now?” Mickey asks befuddled, he just can’t seem to catch a break.

“Yes, now! Get your pasty ass in here, Mickey!”

He joins Colin in the back and gratefully takes the cigarette his brother offers him. All in all having to go on a run with his family might not be so terrible. It’s something with which he’s familiar, knows what to do, and might just offer the necessary distraction he desperately needs right now. He is not capable, nor does he want to try and wrap his head around what the hell just happened with Ian. He’ll take anything over having to keep thinking about that freak event. Besides these types of runs are a piece of cake. They’re quick and easy. Nothing ever happens on these.

LT ->\--------- ♡ ---------<\- LT

He got fucking shot.

Mickey can’t believe he got fucking shot. He rubs his uninjured hand over his face, sighing tiredly. Pouring himself a shot of vodka, he downs it quickly, wincing when it stings his shredded throat. All that screaming from earlier had needlessly exacerbated his sore throat. Mickey still can’t believe how everything went to shit so quickly.All they were supposed to do was pick up the next shipment from their distributor from one of the warehouses at the docks. How that turned into a hailstorm of bullets Mickey still doesn’t understand. They were in the middle of inspecting the goods when Daryl and his entourage busted in, trying to hijack their shipment. Daryl belongs to the gang that runs the main drug trafficking game in South Side. They cover almost allmajor dealer hubs and have spread their business further and further in recent years. Daryl runs one of the many sub-gangs that occupy a certain turf. To be specific, he runs the blocks around Mickey’s school. The Milkoviches have tenaciously defended school grounds as their dealing turf ever since Daryl has established more and more area around school and started to encroach closer on the Milkoviches’ territory. Schools, specifically high schools, are major dealing hubs, favored not only because of providing access to one of the primary target groups, but also because the DEA can’t easily investigate and seize drug operations on school grounds. Which is why Daryl has been eyeing Mickey’s high school for months now. But why the fuck he would actually raid their drop-off is beyond Mickey. It’s incredibly aggressive and can’t possibly have been sanctioned by the main gang. While Mickey and his family are only lower-tier drugs and arms pushers, they occupy mostly blocks in which Daryl and other gangs would never be able to run their business. One thing around South Side that hasn’t changed is the monolithic ethnic population of certain residential neighborhoods which simply boils down to: The black can’t deal on white turf, the white can’t deal on black turf. While still an ever present sign of racial conflict, it makes certain parts on the South Side map easily and, most importantly, indisputably predesignated. As long as everyone keeps to their territory, there isn’t usually a good enough reason to pick a fight. And although the Milkoviches might only be lower-tier criminals, they are quite dominantly established in the South Side criminal network, capitalizing and exerting influence on various criminal hot spots. If push came to shove the dirtiest white trash thugs on South Side would rally behind Mickey’s family. Especially so when business disputes are readily being remolded into subterfuge that instigate racial strife. Quite frankly Mickey doesn’t understand how he is still a witness to these things in this time of age, but bottom line is, unless they wanted to start a conflict between them just for the heck of it that would lead to undoubtedly unnecessary bloodshed on both sides, which nobody profits from in any way, it makes absolutely no sense for them to bust their run-of-the-mill drug shipment like they did tonight.

Daryl and three of his crew came in guns blazing, cocky and unorganized. Terry and his brothers were covering Mickey while he carried the shipment out and he had almost made it out to the car safely until one of the flying bullets hit his hand. With screams and curses he managed to stash the load in the trunk and then scrambled into the back of the already moving car. Terry had shot Daryl’s tires to make sure they couldn’t follow and so Iggy was able to drive them safely out of there with nobody getting harmed. Well, except for Mickey.

Unsurprisingly, Terry was furious, already promising retribution for that stunt. Before Mickey could seek any form of medical attention, he had Iggy drop him off in one of the central hubs he and his best friends usually gather to hide various illegal activities, such as filing off serial numbers from firearms or planning daylight robberies, without a doubt contriving some sort of retaliation.

Colin was to make sure the shipment was stashed away safely and only after Iggy had dropped him off, could they finally head to this dump in which Mickey currently finds himself, wincing in pain every time this derelict of an unlicensed doctor pierces a needle through the flesh between his thumb and index finger. The bullet tore right through and while Mickey got lucky it hadn’t hit any bones, it had almost ripped his thumb off.

Taking another shot of vodka, he winces when the doctor threads the needle into his palm for the twelfth time.

“Easy, doc! Still need that hand,” Mickey whines annoyed.

“No move,” the doctor says with his thick Russian accent and steals the next shot of vodka from Mickey, downing it himself.

“Should you be drinking while you’re fucking sewing my hand back together?” Mickey asks outraged.

“No move!” The doctor says again, shifting the little desk lamp in order to get a better look at Mickey’s hand in the dark and dingy kitchen in which they’re currently sitting.

“ _Ow!_ ” Mickey cries out when he sticks the needle in for the thirteenth time this night.

“Pussy,” Iggy says, but holds out a prescription bottle labeled Oxycodone with two single capsules in it. “Only thing I had in the car, but should be enough to shut up your whining for a while.”

Mickey eyes the pain meds for a moment and then sighs in frustration.

“Nah, man, they’ll put my ass to sleep within a minute,” Mickey states, shaking his head.

“So? You got somewhere to be?” Iggy asks, scoffing.

“Yeah, school, asshole,” he answers annoyed.

Iggy outright laughs in response.

“School? What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“School, man, school! The thing you dropped out after seventh grade?” Mickey retorts irritated and then shoots the man in front of him a look upon a particularly rough grip on his injured hand.

“Right and you care to go why?” Iggy asks as he lights a cigarette for himself, holding it out of arm’s reach when Mickey reaches for it.

“No move!” The doctor barks out and then practically stabs Mickey with his needle.

“I swear to God, I will take that needle and shove it up your ass!” Mickey grinds out in pain, staring daggers at the deadbeat doc. The latter is still as unimpressed by Mickey’s threats as when they started this little patch up project. Mickey is certain just to prove this the doc rams his torture instrument into his flesh even harder.

Exhaling harshly through his nose, he turns his attention back to his brother.

“None of your business,” he answers. “What time is it anyway? Can’t be late.”

“Because you’re afraid to miss AP Bio?” Iggy snorts, but flips open his phone to show Mickey the display.

“English Lit actually,” Mickey replies dryly and then curses when he sees the time. “Drop me off, will you?”

“I can’t believe you’re serious,” Iggy says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, I’ll drive you.”

“You about done, doc? Or do you plan to stitch your fucking name into my skin too?” Mickey asks, glaring at him expectantly.

“Yes, done. Hand needs dry. Put bandage on. You lose many blood, you rest. Or not, I don’t care,” he states, throwing a pack of gauze at him and picks up the bottle of vodka and the wad of cash Iggy and Mickey gave him, leaving without so much a back glance into what must be his bedroom.

“Let’s roll,” Mickey says, happy to get finally out of this dump.

LT ->\--------- ♡ ---------<\- LT

As horrific as the night was, he still isn’t sure he wouldn’t go a second round with the rival gang, if that means he could avoid Ian. With both a throbbing hand and throat he unhappily enters the class room, hoping for some miracle that Ian would skip class today. No such luck. Immediately, Ian’s eyes meet his, his face unreadable. Mickey squirms involuntarily under his scrutiny and reluctantly makes his way over. Surprised, Mickey sees crutches lying on the floor beside his desk, right next to his leg which is in a cast.

“What happened?” Mickey asks as he sits down next to him, right on time for the start of class. Take that, Principal Allen, he thinks.

“I fell down from the attic. You were there,” Ian replies pointedly.

That surprises Mickey. Ian hadn’t seemed to be in pain at all after he had fallen. Ian looks as if he knows what Mickey is thinking.

“I was a bit distracted by that… whatever that was yesterday. I didn’t notice my ankle was broken until you ran away,” Ian whispers, leaning closer to make sure nobody would overhear him.

Mickey jerks back from the close proximity, innerly berating himself for being so obvious about how much the thing yesterday spooked him.

“I didn’t run away,” Mickey mumbles, keeping his eyes on the teacher and the blackboard.

“Right,” Ian says. “You just left. Really fast.”

“Exactly,” Mickey replies, still not directly looking at him.

“Without saying goodbye,” Ian continues and Mickey just shrugs in response. “And without your stuff,” he adds, pulling out Mickey’s notes and books from his backpack and quietly dropping them in front of Mickey.

Flustered, Mickey slowly turns around to find himself the recipient of Ian’s trademark unimpressed glare.

“I was in a hurry,” Mickey murmurs defensively.

Ian seems fine ignoring Mickey’s feeble attempts at lying, moving on to the topic at hand.

“What was that yesterday?”

“How would I know?” Mickey retorts and actually writes down some notes, anything to divert his attention away from Ian.

“It’s got to have something to do with the blackout, right? It was exactly like what I felt that night,” Ian whispers, trying to be inconspicuous when Mrs. Strahovsky looks in their direction.

“I don’t know.”

“You felt it too, right? I know you felt it too,” Ian says, nodding to himself, convinced that he is right. “What do you think this weird thing did?”

“I don’t know.”

“There must be something behind it, right? And why would it only happen after touching you?”

“I don’t know.”

“None of my siblings mentioned having this sort of experience after the blackout. From what I can gather no news outlets ever reported on something like that either. So why only the two of us?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Mickey repeats exasperated, but Ian doesn’t seem to notice.

“Do you think yesterday was just a fluke? Do you think it would happen again if we touched now?” Ian asks and reaches for Mickey’s uninjured hand. Mickey jerks his hand away.

“Don’t touch me!”

The class collectively turns around at Mickey’s outburst, curiously staring at the two of them.

“Everything all right?” Mrs. Strahovsky asks puzzled. Mickey gets a grip on himself and gestures for her to continue.

He glances over to Ian who is staring ahead at the blackboard and whose lips are pressed into a thin line. Mickey wants to say something, the word sorry on the tip of his tongue, but in the end he just averts his gaze, settling on the front of the class. It’s not like Mickey hasn’t had the same questions running around his head since yesterday, but unlike Ian he doesn’t want to get to the bottom of this. He doesn’t want to find out what it all means. His imagination alone is already making him uneasy.

He doesn’t need to be dealing with yet another thing that dubs him different.

“… _Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,_ _a_ _nd make my seated heart knock at my ribs,_ _a_ _gainst the use of nature? Present fears are less than horrible imaginings._ _My thought, whose mur_ _th_ _er yet is but fantastical,_ _s_ _hakes so my single state of man,_ _t_ _hat function is smothered in surmise,_ _a_ _nd nothing is but what is not_.”

Distractedly, he tries to listen to a classmate reading from the play, not grasping one word. The old language is already making it hard enough to understand anything, but without a copy to read along, Mickey finds it impossible to follow. Being slid over their shared desk, he suddenly finds himself looking at the play, open to the pages that are currently being read out load. Ian still doesn’t look at him, merely holds the book open in silence. It must be Lip’s copy Ian found yesterday before he fell down the ladder. Again he wants to say something. A thanks at the very least, but nothing comes out. Worse even, he flees the class room as soon as the bell rings, stoically keeping his gaze averted.

Throughout the day he keeps dodging Ian as much as possible. Leaves as soon as the class is dismissed, rushes off to the next class room by himself, knowing Ian can’t catch up to him on crutches, when possible finds a desk far away from Ian, and when not he determinedly keeps his attention focused on the teacher. Ian tries talking to him, but Mickey ignores his attempts every time. Gradually, Ian becomes more and more irritated with him, something that Mickey can practically feel radiating off him, and they spent the rest of the afternoon in punishing silence.

When it’s finally time for the study session he knows there is no way he can avoid Ian any longer. With Principal Allen tracking his attendance he can’t afford bailing. For the hundredth time he curses this inane situation in which he has found himself. Absolutely exhausted from the past thirty hours he reluctantly makes his way to the guidance counselor's office. His hand has been hurting like a motherfucker all day, but it has been throbbing especially painfully over the last hour. He checks his palm briefly. The blood has started soaking through the bandages a little, but at least the stitches still seem to be in tact.

“If it had been me there last night, you’d have a bullet in ya head right now.”

Mickey looks up and sees Andre, Daryl’s kid brother, standing in front of him.

“Why weren’t you? Was your brother’s little raid past your bedtime?” Mickey retorts.

The kid just started high school this year and is already posturing for his gangster brother on school grounds. This turf still belongs to him; Mickey is getting really fed up with their shit.

“Couldn’t handle the shipment by yourself, had to bring dear daddy with you! Ya got lucky tonight, Milkovich,” he sneers out.

“Wait a minute,” Mickey says and then starts laughing. “You morons didn’t realize Terry had been released already, ain’t that right? You thought you could pull one over me before he was out. For what? You thought you could take my product, take my turf? Without any consequences? Is that right? Now that you’re here you think you can just take over, run your business here instead?” Mickey scoffs.

They might have gotten away with this had they done this a few months ago, but not so now that Terry is out of prison. Mickey’s father doesn’t tolerate any attacks on his pride and reputation. If Mickey’s hunch is correct, the main gang never signed off on this. Daryl and his little crew are going to be in massive shit, since they basically just started a feud between the black and white fractions of South Side. While it most likely won’t turn into an all-out gang war, Mickey is not looking forward to the fallout. Usually these little spats die down literally once somebody gets killed or enough blood has been spilled that both parties realize the losses far exceed what they were willing to pay in the beginning of this whole affair. But Mickey has never given a shit about these gang politics and has absolutely no interest in getting in the middle of this. Daryl’s idea might not have been so stupid after all. Had they done this with Terry still in the joint, Mickey would have let it slide. Unhappily so, but this little antagonizing attempt wouldn’t have been reason enough for him to start a bloody fight between them. And the main gang would have probably let Daryl off with a warning, since Mickey and his brothers alone don’t have enough pull to retaliate. But since they hadn’t been aware that Terry had been released just days before, this will not end peacefully.

“Watch your back, Mickey. I’m keeping my eye on ya,” the kid says in what Mickey considers a pathetic intimidation attempt.

“Yeah, okay, see you around,” Mickey replies facetiously, watching him leave and ends up seeing Ian coming to a stop right behind him.

“Friend of yours?” Ian asks, eyebrow raised.

“Best friend,” Mickey answers and rolls his eyes.

He unlocks the office, struts in, and plops down on his chair, brushing his hand over his face and sighing tiredly.

“You done avoiding me?” Ian asks, balancing on one leg while he puts his crutches down next to the chair.

Mickey looks at him annoyed and then just opens his textbook to start on his homework.

“Guess not,” he mutters, clearly pissed off by Mickey’s attitude.

Mickey goes through his Calculus homework in silence, writes down what he thinks are the right equations, and then slides them over to Ian, so he can have a look at them. Ian inhales deeply through his nose, glaring at Mickey and his recalcitrance. Eventually he takes the notepad and goes over the answers, scribbles something here and there, and then hands it back over to Mickey. He got one out of four exercises right, Ian just having noted an X next to the wrong ones with the additional note at the bottom that says, if he wants to know the correct answers, he will need to talk to him. Well, Ian hasn’t grasped the extent of Mickey’s stubbornness it seems. Mickey puts his math homework away and starts on Econ. He is supposed to do his homework, which he did, that doesn’t mean it needs to be correct. Ian just glares at him, again seemingly being able to read him perfectly. When he does the same with his Econ homework, Ian outright seethes in front of him and by the time he does it with his Geography homework, Ian snaps.

“Will you stop that shit, Mickey? How long do you think you can ignore me? We will have to talk about what happened eventually! We will need to figure out what this is between us!”

“No, we don’t! Whatever that was I don’t give a shit about it! Just leave me out of this!” Mickey shoots back aggravated.

“You can’t be serious. I could feel some… some part of you inside me and the other way around. Something completely not normal. How can you say you don’t give a shit?” Ian retorts incredulously.

“Because it’s not _normal_! Clearly whatever that… that fucking thing was is some kind of bizarre shit that just happens to affect the two of us in the whole wide world! Why would you wanna poke around in this freak show?”

“And your solution is to what? Ignore it for the rest of our lives like you ignored me today? We don’t even know what it is yet! We don’t even know what it means! You can’t just avoid this because you’re afraid!”

“I’m not afraid!” He yells back, slamming his fist on the table as he jumps to his feet. “For all I know you’re the reason why this is happening! Maybe you’re some crazy freak!”

“Fuck you, Mickey!” Ian shoots back as he visibly bristles from that comment. He uses the desk to heave himself up in one quick motion so he can face Mickey head on. “You’re such a fucking coward!”

“Call me that again and I will put you on your ass,” Mickey threatens through clenched teeth.

“Oh, really, tough guy? Says the person who is too scared to even touch me,” Ian shoots back.

“I don’t want anything to do with this! With you! I told you I don’t fucking care, so you wanna find out what this is, you do it by yourself!”

“Well, I can’t figure this out by myself! Because this thing has something to do with you and me! Nobody else, just you and me! Something happened to the both of us! I don’t know why it’s you, Mickey, okay? Coincidence? Bad luck maybe? Fate?” Ian shouts. “But it is you! We are in this together whether you like it or not! So get your head out of your ass and let’s figure this out!”

And here it is again, that fate bullshit. This is his life. Nobody gets to dictate how he is supposed to live it. Only he himself gets to decide what his life is going to look like. Mickey refuses to be tossed about any longer. He refuses to be a marionette in his own life. He refuses to be powerless.

“Fuck it, I’m out of here.”

“You’re running away, really?” Ian asks, watching Mickey collect his stuff.

“Looks like it,” Mickey merely replies and rounds the desk in order to leave. He only stops when he is forced to when Ian hobbles in his way.

“What about the study session? I thought you had to do this no matter what,” Ian points out stubbornly.

“You gonna tell Principal Allen?” Mickey asks, meeting Ian’s piercing eyes.

“What if I did?” Ian counters seriously.

Mickey is still looking into his eyes, recognizing the challenge in them. He is painfully aware what’s at stake here. If Ian tells Principal Allen he is not holding up his end of the deal, he’ll pull the plug on this whole thing and he will sign the expulsion report in what might as well be his death warrant. He meets Ian’s eyes, not cowering away.

“Do it then,” Mickey says and then brushes past him.

LT ->\--------- ♡ ---------<\- LT

He’s not dead yet.

A whole weekend has passed and he’s still alive. Granted he hasn’t seen his father since the shootout, but not even the prospect of getting the jump on Daryl and his crew would hold Terry’s attention if he heard his son was caught fucking another dude. The waiting might be worse than whatever creative way Terry will come up with to kill him in the end. Maybe Principal Allen has a strict no working on weekends rule and doesn’t want to ruin his days off with Mickey’s blood on his hands. That would be just like him. Torturing Mickey for one more weekend with his whimsical antics. Or maybe there is a much simpler explanation as to why he is still breathing.

Mickey sighs, covering his eyes from the rising sun slipping through the gaps in his curtains. He practically hasn’t left his bed for the past two days. His throat hurts worse than last week from all the chain smoking he’s spent his time doing. His skin feels itchy from being in the same clothes for that long. His hair is greasy. And he reeks too.

If he wants to make it to class in time, he needs to get ready now. But Mickey doesn’t know if there’s even a point to it. He’s already backed out on one of his mandated stipulations, he might as well say to hell with the rest. Besides his bed is warm and cozy. If he has to die, better here than like a rat on the street.

Thinking about what happened makes Mickey just feel more miserable. The way Ian had looked at him when he took off still haunts him. But whenever he thinks about that weird sensation they had experienced, he just wants to push it to the back of his mind and pretend it never happened. It felt weirdly intimate. As if Ian was touching him on a different level. Warm and soothing. It was some supernatural shit and Mickey can’t deal with the thought alone. He can’t start thinking of how this is probably connected to the blackout or of how this only seems to have something to do with Ian. This is all just too weird and freakish. He doesn’t want anything to do with it. If only Ian’s disappointed, angry, and frustrated green eyes wouldn’t flash inside his mind every two seconds…

“Yo, jackass,” Iggy greets after barging into Mickey’s room.

Mickey just moves his arm far enough so he can glimpse at his brother.

“What?” Mickey croaks out.

“How long are you gonna rot in here?” Iggy asks.

“Scram,” he merely replies and then hides behind his arm again, willing him away like an ostrich sticking his head in the sand.

“It’s Monday,” Iggy points out as if that is supposed to mean something to Mickey.

“And?”

“And doesn’t your precious school start in thirty minutes?” Iggy asks, his voice sounding clearly annoyed that he has to spell it out.

“Not going.”

“You bitched at me the entire ride for driving too slow on Friday, ‘cause you were afraid you’d be late to school. What the fuck happened now?”

“School sucks ass,” Mickey retorts.

“School has always sucked ass, that’s why I was surprised you even bothered,” Iggy replies, scoffing.

“What do you want from me, Iggy?” Mickey asks annoyed, still not looking at him.

“Gotta stop by my PO. Thought I’d drop you off on the way,” Iggy says, plopping down on the bed next to Mickey. Mickey groans annoyed and turns around, facing the wall.

“I told you I’m not going.”

There’s a moment of silence, only the rustling of Iggy moving can be heard, followed by the telltale click of a lighter.

“Want some?” Iggy says and digs his elbow into Mickey’s side. When Mickey looks over his shoulder in irritation he sees him holding his joint out for him.

“Dude, it’s 7:30 in the morning,” Mickey points out incredulously.

“Like you never smoked pot before the sun has come out,” he responds, huffing.

“Well, do that shit somewhere else. Some people are trying to sleep over here,” Mickey replies annoyed and starts to cough from the strain speaking puts on his throat.

“Still not better?”

“No,” Mickey answers, turning around to stare at the wall.

“How about your hand?”

“Iggy, what the fuck do you want from me?” Mickey repeats aggravated, glaring at him over his shoulder.

“Wanna tell me what the fuck is going on with you?” He asks, giving him a look Mickey can’t decipher.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been acting strange,” he says, taking a drag from his joint.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickey shoots back, avoiding meeting his brother’s eyes.

“Mickey, I know,” Iggy replies.

Mickey’s heart skips and then beats into overdrive, pounding in his chest uncomfortably. Hesitantly, he turns around, meeting his brother’s eyes.

“You know what?”

“About the money,” Iggy says and then elaborates when Mickey just looks at him quizzically. “Your getaway money? It’s gone.”

“How do you know about my getaway money?” Mickey asks confused, but at least his pulse is slowing down.

Iggy gives him this look that clearly conveys that this isn’t a secret.

“We all have money stashed away,” Iggy states and then takes another drag, staring ahead at Mickey’s posters hanging on the wall. “Mom taught us that. Always have quick access to cash in case you need to make a run for it.”

Mickey doesn’t remember her saying that, but he still remembers as clear as day where she went to sneak money away from Terry. Always hid the cash inside the laundry detergent.

“Okay, but how do you know where I hid it?” Mickey asks, narrowing his eyes.

Iggy rolls his eyes as if Mickey were slow.

“Where is Mandy’s getaway cash?” He asks instead of answering.

“Buried underneath her tampons,” Mickey shoots back immediately.

“Colin’s?”

“Sock drawer,” he answers and they both can’t help but shake their heads pityingly.

“Mine?” Iggy continues.

“Inside your second bong,” Mickey replies and concedes Iggy’s point. “So, how do you know my money is gone?”

After his failed attempt at leaving the city, he hadn’t returned the money to his hiding spot. It’s still in his bag somewhere.

“Pops came looking for the return on your last delivery. I snuck in here to go and get your cash to hide it in my room just in case Terry would find it.”

Mickey stares at Iggy’s profile as he blows out some smoke. He’s never really stopped to take a good look at his brother in recent years. Maybe if he had, he would have noticed the mature lines that suggest he’s left his teenage years behind some time ago. It makes him remember now that Iggy has been dealing with Terry a lot longer than Mickey.

“You going anywhere?” Iggy asks quietly, staring down at his hand where he is rolling the joint around his fingers.

Mickey watches him silently, let’s the familiar smell of weed coming from his brother settle him.

“No.”

“You planned to go somewhere?” Iggy digs further, turning around this time to meet Mickey’s eyes.

Licking his lips, he debates his answer for a beat.

“Yeah.”

“What changed?” Iggy asks curiously.

He thinks about all that bullshit talk of fate with which the principal harassed him, about the granny and her geriatric ramblings about life getting better, about that night on the roof where he threw his gun at the wall. In the end he really comes only to one conclusion why he decided to stay.

“I didn’t want to be a fucking coward.”

Iggy stares at him a bit dumbfounded for a moment before he huffs amused and grins.

“Milkoviches can be called a lot of shit, but coward ain’t one of them,” he says, punching Mickey’s arm playfully.

Mickey should have realized sooner, that although he had decided to stay he was still running away from his problems. That he was one foot out the door the entire time. He agreed to Principal Allen’s deal; he should have toughened up and just gone through with it instead of complaining all the way that his hands had been forced to do this. And about Ian, well, the whole preternatural connection thing still freaks him out, but Ian is right, running away from it doesn’t solve anything. A voice at the back of his head tells him that he could ignore it forever. Ignore Ian. It would be as simple as that. Mickey wants to listen to that voice, but more than that he doesn’t want to be a coward.

”Can you…” Mickey starts, clearing his throat. “Give me that ride after all?”

“Only if you shower first. You’re a lot filthier than usual. You ain’t getting in my car like this,” Iggy says, making a face.

Mickey kicks him off his bed for that and then tackles him, rubbing his so called filth all over him.

In the end he does take that shower and collects his school stuff, taking his brother up on his offer to drop him off at school. He throws a wad of cash into the nook of the center console and then goes on to explain when Iggy looks at him quizzically.

“You fronted the money for me in the end, didn’t you? With Dad?” Mickey asks and Iggy turning his attention back on the road is all the confirmation he needed. “Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Iggy simply replies.

Next to the bundle of cash, Mickey notices an unsigned attendance slip from Iggy’s employer at the factory. He glances over to his brother, watching him curiously. Iggy seems in thought and before Mickey can say anything, his brother turns his attention to him.

“If you’re ever in trouble or you need anything, just tell me.”

Mickey stares, not knowing how to react. His impulse is to bark out something crude to play down the gravity of Iggy’s sentiment, to hide how he doesn’t know how to deal with Iggy showing that he cares. In the end he simply nods, letting him know that he understands.

When he gets out of the car he takes a beat longer to shut the door, glancing at the paper lying in the console and then looks at his brother.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, fartface,” Iggy says and then drives off.

Okay, so maybe his brother hasn’t matured as much as Mickey thought. He just hopes his PO won’t get pissed about the unsigned work slip and all that weed smell that is wafting off his clothes, since he’s on his way there and all.

LT ->\--------- ♡ ---------<\- LT

When he enters the class room of his History course he lets his eyes wander around, looking for Ian. He spots him at the far back, some random chick sitting next to him. He marches over, stops in front of her, and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“You’re in my seat,” he barks. From his peripheral view he sees Ian inhale in exasperation, shifting his attention to the front of the class.

“What? No, I normally sit next to Ian. I was just sick last week,” she explains, bewildered to see Mickey in class by the looks of it.

“Sucks for you. Shouldn’t’ve gotten sick, bitch. This is my seat now, so beat it,” Mickey says and successfully scares the girl away.

Sitting down, Mickey notices that Ian is pointedly ignoring him, not acknowledging his presence. Which isn’t undeserved, Mickey concedes.

“Hey,” he says for lack of a better ice breaker. Unsurprisingly, he isn’t getting any reaction out of him. “Have a nice weekend?”

He would have bet money on getting an eye roll for that at the very least. But as it stands nothing.

“Any chance we can forget about Friday?”

Ian studiously ignores him and follows the teacher’s instructions, opening his textbook.

“Oh, hey, mind if I look in your book again-” Mickey starts to ask, but Ian has already pulled the book away from him before he could finish.

Okay, so Ian’s stubbornness rivals Mickey’s. He’s going to have to find a way to get Ian to talk to him again. While they sit in silence and Mickey is debating exactly how he is going to achieve that, he sees outside the window Principal Allen walking across the school yard. He swallows around his sore throat and then glances subtly over to Ian, wondering if he had already told Principal Allen about him quitting the program. While he did no longer want to be told what he is supposed to do and he prepared himself for the consequences by bailing on Ian, it still fills his stomach with dread thinking about Terry finding out. Ian’s eyes glance to Mickey for the first time since he sat down, follows his line of sight to outside, and then, understanding, he returns his attention back to the front of the class, his jaw clenched tightly. Mickey doesn’t know how to decipher that and so he tries to put it to the back of his mind, hoping if he followed the class, it would sufficiently distract him.

He continues to have no luck with Ian during History and when the bell finally rings, he decides to be a little more proactive. Mickey takes Ian’s books and then picks up Ian’s crutches, handing them to him. Ian just stares at him suspiciously in response, clearly wondering what Mickey’s doing.

“Come on, limpy, I’ll help you to your class,” he says and when Ian just continues to glare at him, he takes Ian’s backpack too and marches ahead.

“You don’t have AP Chemistry,” Ian finally says when they are walking down the hall.

“Lookie here, he speaks!” Mickey responds, adjusting his pace so he falls in line with Ian.

“Give me my stuff and leave me alone, Mickey. I thought that’s what you wanted,” Ian bites back.

“Okay, hey, look, man,” Mickey says, stepping into Ian’s path so he can properly face him. “I shouldn’t have… reacted the way I did…” Mickey struggles with his words. It’s not often he ever considers apologizing to anyone. “Will you stop throwing a hissy fit already and just forget about it?”

Perhaps that wasn’t quiet the right approach Mickey comes to find when Ian steps closer to get in his face, visibly pissed off.

“Go fuck yourself, Mickey,” he says and then snaps his backpack out of Mickey’s hand, does the same to his books, and then tosses them inside. Ian is surprisingly graceful for somebody leaning on his crutches while at the same time managing to exude quiet the menacing vibe. He licks his lips as he stares at Ian walking away from him.

Mickey recognizes that could have gotten better. But it’s just not in his nature to apologize. He doesn’t really know how to do that. Ask him how to hotwire a car or how to run credit card numbers, that he knows how to do. Apologizing? Not so much. It’s rare he ever finds himself in the situation where he even wants to make things right.

Sighing, he heads into the other direction for his class.

During double period Calculus Ian pointedly ignores Mickey and goes so far as to take a seat next to Barry, the class weirdo. Admittedly, having to swallow his own medicine is pretty annoying. He tries to talk to Ian again in Spanish, but all he gets for his efforts is a middle finger. By the time it’s lunch break, his patience has run itself to the ground and he is questioning why he’s even trying. Yearning for a cigarette, he debates sneaking off to his hangout spot, since nobody usually heads that far out and he reckons he could get away with it there. But then again he had similar thoughts on the guidance counselor's office and look where that got him. Cigarette or not, he considers it a good spot to have lunch, to get away from everything, and so after buying himself a chicken sandwich he makes his way across the school yard. On his way he sees Andre and his little kiddie crew pointedly eyeing him from the other side of the yard. Mickey clicks his tongue annoyed and chooses to ignore them and whatever posturing they think he would find intimidating. Taking the shortcut under the bleachers, he almost laughs when he runs into a certain red-head smoking.

“So, you’re effectively stalking me now, is that it?” Ian says annoyed after having taking another drag from his smoke.

“Believe it or not, I didn’t know I’d find your ass here,” Mickey huffs amused.

“I find it curious that for somebody who only a few days ago aggressively insisted I leave him alone you can’t stop harassing me now,” Ian responds, shaking his head in irritation.

“Will you stop being such a drama queen?” Mickey replies, rolling his eyes.

Ian shoots him a glare. Flicking his cigarette away, he hobbles over until there’s just a couple of feet between them.

“What’s your deal, Mickey? You don’t want to have anything to do with me one day and the next you just tell me to forget all about it? Not how it works.”

“What do you want me to say? I already apologized,” Mickey retorts, his arms spread to his sides.

“First, you didn’t apologize, you were being an ass. Second, how about you tell me what is going on between you and Principal Allen? I want some answers,” Ian demands, getting in his face.

So now Ian is demanding shit from him. Mickey couldn’t care less about what Ian wants.

“You want answers? And an apology?” Mickey huffs, bobbing his head. “Okay, here’s your apology.”

Taking a swing, he punches Ian in the face. The moment his fist connects with Ian’s face he can feel their weird connection between them spike with the intensity of the blow for the split second their skin touch. Ian struggles to keep his balance on the crutches, is barely able to hang on. He holds his nose, checking for blood, and then glares at Mickey with a mix of incredulity and outright fury. Not seeing it coming, Mickey gets hit in the stomach by one of Ian’s crutches and when he doubles over gets hit again, this time in the legs, effectively knocking him on his ass. Ian is on him in a second and, suddenly, they are in the middle of a full blown fight on the dirt ground under the bleachers.

Mickey quickly realizes holding back only because Ian is handicapped is a pretty big mistake. The fucking ginger can hold his own in a fight. Ian lands quite a few hard punches directly to his face and Mickey has to go for the kidney to throw Gallagher off him. They wrestle back and forth for a while until they’ve succumbed to wrapping their hands around the other’s neck, strangling each other. Neither wanting to give in, they keep at it for a long moment, until finally they let go of one another, both ringing for air.

Trying to get their breathing back under control, they silently lie next to each other. Mickey tenderly palpates his nose and cheekbone, wincing in pain, but otherwise happily noting nothing is broken.

“You pack a mean punch, Gallagher,” Mickey says between gasps.

“You punch like a pussy,” Ian replies, but hisses when he touches his split lip.

“I guess that answers whether that weird thing was only a fluke,” Mickey comments as he thinks about the familiar feeling rushing through each other when they were wrestling. Which Mickey found distracting to say the least.

“Yeah,” Ian pants. “Still think we should ignore that?”

Mickey exhales through his nose, glancing over to Ian.

“It still freaks me out,” he admits and it’s as honest as he is capable of being about his feelings.

“Me too.”

Mickey expected to hear another lecture about why they needed to investigate regardless of how they felt about it, but Ian seems resigned to leave it at that.

“Are we good? I don’t think I have it in me to go another round,” Mickey asks, slowly getting up.

“I still think you’re an ass,” Ian retorts, but then holds his hand out and Mickey takes it to help him up. The weird thing connects between them again and Mickey hurriedly lets go.

Handing him his crutches, he watches as Ian balances on one foot and arranges them under his arms.

“Look,” Mickey begins reluctantly. “I can’t tell you what’s going on, okay? I just can’t. If… if that’s a deal breaker for you, tell me now. I will need to find somebody else to help me graduate. If you haven’t already told Principal Allen about Friday that is…”

“You think I’d snitch?” Ian asks, eyebrows raised. And if Mickey is really being honest with himself, he never did actually think Ian would sell him out like that. He’s only known him for a little while, but he can tell they’re cut from the same cloth. They’re South Side through and through.

“Come with me,” Mickey says and nods his head indicating Ian to follow him.

“Where to?” Ian asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Come on, Gallagher. Show you something cool,” Mickey replies and leads him out from under the bleachers.

Making sure that nobody else has ventured this far out, he shows Ian to the tool shed. Leading him to the back, he helps him climb up the roof with his busted leg and then heaves himself up after him.

“What’s this place?” Ian asks as he takes the weathered, dirty roof in.

Mickey plops down at his usual spot, overseeing the baseball field and the bleachers and gestures for Ian to sit down next to him.

“Like to come here,” he says, shrugging, unable to explain how this place provides him peace of mind.

Ian stares ahead at the field where the baseball team is still going at it even though it’s technically lunch break at the moment. He huffs, smiles, and then joins Mickey on the ledge.

“This is pretty cool,” he replies and takes out his pack of cigarettes, offering Mickey a smoke.

Mickey shakes his head, averting his gaze, letting it wander over the view in front of them.

“Can’t,” he says and pretends he doesn’t notice Ian scrutinizing him.

“That something to do with Principal Allen too?”

“Yeah,” Mickey responds truthfully.

He hears the lighter click, sees and smells the smoke wafting into the air next to him. Mickey unpacks his lunch and silently eats his sandwich, watching the baseball team slowly packing up.

“What happened with your hand?” Ian asks, looking at his bandages.

“Got shot,” Mickey answers around a bite.

At first Ian seems to think Mickey is joking, but Mickey just looks at him earnestly and continues to eat without saying anything further.

“Oh, you’re serious,” Ian says surprised. “How did that happen?”

“Drug run gone to shit,” Mickey explains.

“That happen often?” Ian asks curiously.

“Sometimes, but I don’t usually get shot,” he responds.

“Hurts?”

“Like a bitch,” Mickey confirms, especially after having just thrown punches around. “Your leg?”

“Like a motherfucker,” Ian replies.

“What’s the doc’s diagnosis anyway?” Mickey asks, eyeing Ian’s cast closely.

“The ankle is ‘severely’ broken,” he says annoyed, apparently quoting his doctor.

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I just hope it’ll fully heal by graduation,” Ian says, sighing as he looks at his busted ankle.

“You going somewhere?” Mickey asks, glancing at Ian’s profile, wondering why the idea of Ian leaving creates an unpleasant pit in his stomach when he’s only known the guy for a week.

“If everything goes to plan, West Point,” Ian replies.

“West Point, huh?” Mickey says, fiddling around in the newly ripped hole in his jeans.

“I wanna be an officer, that’s why I’m taking all these extra classes: Geometry, Algebra II, Trigonometry, Chemistry…” Ian explains.

“Don’t officers get shot first?” Mickey comments and glances over to meet Ian’s eyes.

He’s a bit surprised to learn Ian’s the army type. After today’s blowout he guesses he can see it. Ian’s quick on his feet, busted ankle or not, puts some mean bite into his punches, and generally knows how to carry himself in a fight. Regardless he’s disappointed for somebody as capable as Ian to want to enlist in the army where he’ll only turn into canon fodder in the end. Finds it almost pitiful to see that excited spark in Ian’s eyes as he speaks about his dreams in the military. At the same time there is something to be said about looking at Ian with his hard set aspirations, the fire he carries in pursuing what he’s decided to make his own. To be able to see his face light up just at the opportunity to talk about his plans. To see Ian’s eyes crinkle at the corners, to see his lips lift into a smile.

“…you know?” Ian says, huffing out a laugh and shrugging. Mickey snaps out of his daze and nods, not really sure with what he’s agreeing. “But it’s all gonna be pointless, if my ankle doesn’t heal up in time. I’m already missing out on all my ROTC training. I need to stay fit. Gotta find a way to practice my drills for the aptitude test when they evaluate me. Don’t think they’re gonna be super impressed if they come and find me on crutches.”

“Show them how you fight, man, and they will. Fuck, you can even put me down on your references, if that helps. Thugs I put on their asses while crippled,” Mickey responds and they both laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ian says amused.

Since they both got a free period after lunch break they are in no hurry to go anywhere, languidly watching the empty baseball field up ahead.

“What are you hurting your head about thinking so hard?” Mickey asks, watching Ian struggling with some thoughts he has.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but what are we gonna do?” Ian replies, turning to look at Mickey.

Mickey wishes he didn’t know to what Ian is referring. He lowers his head, plays around with his bandages, pulling distractedly at them.

“Don’t know,” Mickey mumbles honestly.

“You know, I… I did some research over the weekend,” Ian says, catching Mickey by surprise. “And… we’re not actually the only ones.”

“What?” Mickey asks, his head snapping up to look at Ian.

“It’s all unverified. A few users on some blogs insisting they’re different since the blackout,” Ian replies, though he doesn’t look as excited as Mickey would have thought he’d be upon these news.

“Different how?” Mickey asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Well, some believe they have been touched by God,” Ian answers, already cringing at Mickey’s possible reaction.

“Oh, great, some whackadoodles think they’re the new messiahs sent to the planet of root beer and curly fries to enlighten our asses,” Mickey snorts out.

“Forget about them. I did find three comments that described exactly what we’ve gone through during the blackout though!”

“Only three? Are you serious? In the entire world there are only three people who are like us?”

“So far? I don’t know,” Ian says awkwardly. “Listen, they all mentioned how they are suddenly connected to another person. Described what we’ve been feeling to the letter, Mickey. One woman said that since the blackout she and her husband have experienced this sensation every time they touched. A girl from Ireland wrote the same thing on a different blog, just that it has been happening with her best friend. That can’t be a coincidence, right?”

“What about the third one?” Mickey asks suspiciously.

Ian’s excitement wavers a little and he averts his eyes as he slowly answers.

“A guy from India thinks he’s connected to his fiance who is in a coma. Described the same sensation, but…” Ian says, reluctant to continue. “He claims he can communicate with her in his dreams.”

“So we’ve got a housewife who’s spiced up her sex life, a teenage girl who posts about how magical her friendship is with her bff, and a nutcase who probably runs around dancing naked in his backyard. Not exactly inspiring my confidence here, Ian.”

“I wish I had the answers, Mickey, but I don’t. I’m trying to wrap my head around this as much as you,” Ian retorts and then slaps Mickey’s hand away when he sees him fiddling around with his bandages.

And there it is again, that subtle tingling when their skin touch, making it impossible for Mickey to deny its existence no matter how much he wishes he could. Ian takes Mickey’s hand in his and re-wraps his bandages, wincing slightly in sympathy at seeing the stitches embedded in angry red skin. Mickey feels the connection trickle between them through their fingertips, like an hour glass tipped to the side, leaking sand from one side to the other. He watches as Ian gently ties a knot at the back of Mickey’s hand, flips it, and then inspects his handiwork. All the while feeling this thing between them move along in practiced harmony. Ian’s fingers linger and the subtle sensation starts to faintly flare up, pushing into Mickey, exploring. And Mickey knows it follows Ian’s cues, moves at his will, probing into Mickey based on Ian’s curiosity. The latter is so engrossed in the spectacle he doesn’t notice Mickey having averted his gaze from their linked hands to Ian’s face. Mickey swallows as he watches Ian’s eyes follow the invisible movements, completely rapt in fascination. Tries not to shudder at the sensations percolating through skin and nestling into the recesses inside him that go far beyond the physical anatomy that is bones and nerve endings. Forgets himself when he follows the light freckles peppered around Ian’s nose and gets lost in the green of Ian’s eyes. He notices the connection spike from his side involuntarily and Ian’s head snaps up in response, meeting Mickey’s eyes. Ian is studying him, silently holding his gaze and Mickey has to fight the daze he’s currently in to finally look away and retrieve his hand.

“Thanks,” Mickey mutters, looking everywhere but at Ian. “So, did those whackjobs spout any guesses to what this is?”

He can feel Ian still watching him for a lingering moment until he turns his attention to the ever darker turning sky.

“The girl and the Indian guy seemed to fall on the same theory,” Ian says softly. “They both believe they’re linked to their soulmate.”

Mickey’s head snaps to Ian.

“You can’t be serious,” Mickey responds, the breath stuck in his lungs.

“Just telling you what they wrote,” Ian replies with a shrug, stealing a brief glance toward Mickey. “They think it’s their souls connecting, bonding between them when they touch.”

“That’s a crackpot theory if I ever heard one,” Mickey says and if he can hear in his own voice how freaked out he is, Ian must hear it too.

“Yeah, crazy,” Ian agrees halfheartedly, sliding around on the ledge to get up. “We should head inside before it starts to rain.”

Mickey looks between Ian and the gray clouds and then settles on his bandaged hand, where a minute ago he felt Ian connect with him in a way that is so far beyond anything explicable. But to come up with soul bond out of all things? He can’t even laugh so absurd he finds the whole idea. As he wiggles his fingers and stares at the bandages something gnaws at the back of his mind, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. He clears his throat, not being able to shake the feeling.

Slowly rising up, he goes to help Ian down the roof, careful not to have a repeat of last week’s accident, but too obvious in avoiding any skin contact if Ian’s knowing look is any indication.

They make their way over to the school yard, passing a couple of other students, but mostly the school grounds are devoid of anyone wandering around, seeing as they’re all in class. About to turn the corner to the main building, Mickey hears a familiar voice and stops in his tracks, holding Ian back as well, signaling him to be quiet. Confused, Ian looks at him, wondering what’s going on, but Mickey just shakes his head, still holding his finger to his lips.

“…and you’re certain this is necessary?” He hears Principal Allen say behind the corner, seemingly talking on the phone with somebody. “I know what you’ve said, but you don’t exactly have a warrant, now do you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be merely asking… Whether it’s in our best interest is still for me to decide, detective… I’m perfectly clear what that means… Fine… A locker sweep it shall be… If I find anything during the search, I will inform you… Yes…”

Mickey pinches the bridge over his nose, exhaling in frustration. Ian looks at him quizzically and he just gestures for him to turn around. When he deems them far enough from Principal Allen, he sighs, scratching his eyebrow.

“What was that?” Ian asks, eyeing him curiously.

“Trouble,” Mickey helpfully supplies. “Mind helping a guy out?”

Ian looks at him suspiciously, visibly unsure whether he’s going to like where this is going.

LT ->\--------- ♡ ---------<\- LT

“You got to be kidding me,” Ian says incredulously as he sees the insides of Mickey’s second locker. “Drugs?”

“Do you think I can just walk around campus with a bag of meth in my pockets whenever I am dealing? I gotta stash that shit somewhere,” Mickey explains around the flashlight in his mouth as he grabs the mentioned bag of meth and tosses it inside his backpack.

“Who buys meth at school?” Ian asks in disbelief, standing at the corner to the main hall, keeping watch.

“You’d be surprised, a lot of junkies coming fresh out of middle school,” Mickey replies, continuing to empty his locker.

“Is that a taser? Are those nunchucks? Is that a fucking gun?!” Ian asks hysterically when he sees Mickey slipping the latter into the back of his pants.

“Yes, yes, and yes. Will you keep it down for fuck’s sake? And make sure nobody is coming!” Mickey replies, taking the flashlight out of his mouth.

“You can’t bring a gun to school, Mickey! If they catch you, it’s guaranteed prison time,” Ian hisses, looking between the main hall and Mickey.

“No shit, Gallagher. Why do you think I’m cleaning out my locker?” Mickey retorts.

He’s fully aware that being 19 means he’d be going straight to prison instead of juvie for endangering minors. It would mean a whole different prison sentence too.

“Why would you even bring a gun here in the first place?” Ian asks.

“This is a South Side high school. No way I take a step into this hellhole without some kind of protection,” Mickey shoots back just as incredulously.

“Most people would say you’re the one we need protection from,” Ian points out.

“I take that as a compliment,” Mickey replies, grabbing his stash of pre-rolled joints.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he quickly checks it. He sees another of Scott’s messages on the display and ignores it, just like he had the other dozen unread texts from the guy. Scott has tried calling him a few times since that day in the guidance counselor’s office, but Mickey never picked up.

“Only you would. You got any idea why the police called in to ask for a sweep?” Ian asks.

Mickey had briefly explained to him what Principal Allen’s phone call was about and how he quickly needed to get his stuff out of the school. Needing a lookout, he convinced Ian to meet him here after dark.

“Oh, I got a pretty good guess,” Mickey mutters. “They were tipped off that drugs were being dealt on school grounds.”

“Then why don’t they just raid the place themselves? Why ask the principal to do a meager locker inspection?”

“They don’t have enough to appear in front of a judge to get a warrant. Police investigations in places where minors are involved got a whole lot of red tape to content with. Good for people like me, but sucks for the pigs. Now if the school finds illegal drugs during their own inspections, the DEA can use that as grounds to conduct a proper investigation. Can come in here, sweep and seize, take statements, that kind of thing. Which is bad for people like me, if you get my drift.”

“Yeah, prison bad,” Ian concurs. “But this isn’t your locker, right?”

“No, but the kid whose locker this actually is might possibly say that they were _persuaded_ in what might be seen by some people as _forceful_ to hand over their locker to a stunningly handsome gentleman who might or might not have a set of knuckle tattoos.”

Ian just gives him his usual unimpressed look. Mickey is about to comment when they hear noise coming from near the entrance.

“I think I hear something,” Ian whispers, carefully leaning ahead so he can check the main corridor. “Yap, campus security. Mickey, we gotta go.”

“Fuck!” Mickey mutters, having turned off the flashlight just in case security sees the light reflecting off a surface.

“Mickey, we need to go!”

Mickey looks around, but there is nowhere to hide. They could make a run for it, but with Ian on crutches, he’ll most likely get caught.

“Okay, here’s the plan. Head to the guidance counselor’s office and hide there. If you can manage to climb up and out the window, it will directly lead you to the side entrance and you can just hobble out of there. If not, well hide out as long as you need until they’re gone and then sneak out. They won’t suspect anyone behind an office that’s supposed to be locked. Here’s the key,” Mickey says and holds it out for Ian to take. “I’ll lure him in the other direction. When it’s safe make a run for it.”

“No, Mickey, if they catch you, they will check your bag for sure,” Ian whispers while keeping an eye on the approaching security guard.

“I gotta run real fast then,” Mickey replies, putting the backpack on.

Ian looks at him, jaw set, inhales deeply through his nose, seemingly debating something. Mickey is about to point out that they don’t have time for this and that they need to go now when Ian puts his crutches to the side and holds his hand out.

“Give me the bag and your gun,” Ian says.

“What? Fuck no, I’m not giving you half a prison lifetime of illegal goods,” Mickey retorts incredulously.

“I’ll hide in the office and lock the door. You said it yourself, they’ll never suspect anyone in there. You run and they actually catch you, it’s immediately over for you.”

“You trip over your crutches, you make a noise, or maybe even run into a second security detail and it’s immediately over for _you_ ,” Mickey responds heatedly and glances around the corner to see how much time they have left. The campus security guard has almost made it halfway down the corridor. They really need to move.

“You know I’m right. Chances are better for both of us to get away with this, if we do it my way. Now give me the bag before it’s too late!” Ian replies, demanding the backpack.

“What about West Point?” Mickey says. “You get caught, you’ll never get into West Point.”

“I know!” Ian hisses angrily. “But… I trust you, okay? Make sure I don’t get caught. Now give me the fucking bag and your gun!”

Absolutely hating this idea, Mickey hands over his stuff. When he puts the key in Ian’s palm, he feels the connection between them hum and he grabs his hand before Ian can pull away. He pushes the trickling link over to Ian, for the first time actively manipulating it, not really sure what he’s doing and why he’s doing it, but Ian seems to understand and answers by subtly holding against it.

“Stay hidden in the shadows until he’s followed me out,” Mickey tells him as he lets go and Ian nods in understanding, pressing himself against the row of lockers. “If they catch you, tell them the stuff is mine, you hear me? I know you’re not a snitch, but you’re not going down for this, understand?”

“Yeah, okay,” Ian replies. “You owe me, Milkovich. Big time.”

“Don’t I know it,” Mickey responds, grinning.

“I mean it. I want to find out what this… bond is between us. And you’re going to help me,” Ian demands, adjusting the grip on his crutches. “Promise me, Mickey.”

“You’re bringing this up _now_?” Mickey asks incredulously and sees the perfect moment to make his move. “Fuck, fine, you have my word. But you better not get caught!”

He takes one last look at Ian, sees him smiling victoriously, and then runs out in direction of the exit.

Fucking Gallagher, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up by the end of the weekend! If you're feeling gracious, leave some love!


	6. Chapter 6

Standing in the hall during first period, Mickey watches in the trope of students how the teaching staff is going through locker by locker. There’s an alarming amount of illegal weapons discovered, only fortifying Mickey’s stance on his assessment that bringing protection is not only justified, but also very much needed. He’s raising his eyebrows, looking at Ian next to him, clearly conveying a message of _I told you so_ to which Ian only rolls his eyes. He eyes the scratch on Ian’s face from last night’s stunt, perfectly falling in line with the split lip and other bruises he’s sustained from their little brawl under the bleachers. Ian had torn the skin on his cheek when he was squeezing through the office window, right before Mickey had arrived outside and pulled him up and out of the guidance counselor’s office. After a spirited game of Tom & Jerry with campus security, Mickey managed to ditch the security guard and circle back around the building to go get Ian. The latter already being in the middle of climbing his makeshift pedestal as if a severely broken ankle didn’t even register so much as a hindrance. While crawling out the tight opening Ian managed to scratch himself on the window frame. Nothing serious, immediately shrugged off by Ian when they were making a run for it, but for Mickey serving as a visual reminder now how much Ian put on the line for him yesterday.

“Are you sure you got everything before we had to make a run for it?” Ian whispers, eyeing Mickey’s second locker which is about to be inspected next.

“Yeah, positive. I even busted the lock, so nobody could sneak something in there afterwards, just in case,” Mickey replies quietly, his point being underlined by the janitor currently trying to get the locker to open and only succeeding by ripping the hinges off.

“Who would want to slip something in your locker?” Ian asks, looking at him quizzically.

“I’d say the same people who sicced the damn cops on me in the first place,” Mickey says angrily as he watches Andre and his crew across the hall walking away pissed when the teachers come to find his locker empty.

“I’m beginning to think that most rumors about you Milkoviches are true after all,” Ian responds, sighing wearily.

“Hey, I never denied anything,” Mickey simply replies.

“Okay, show’s over, beloved students. Off you go to your classes,” Principal Allen exclaims after the last locker had been inspected. He walks over to the pile of confiscated contraband and sighs theatrically. “Well, this search has unearthed a number of interesting items. Ben, would you be so kind to store this safely somewhere for now until I figure out what the heck I’m supposed to do with all that. Careful, please. Don’t want to see you stab yourself by accident.”

Looking at the loot, Mickey sees a lot of decent black market items in there that would be worth re-selling. He might tell Colin about it later. Maybe he can break in and snatch the stuff before Principal Allen gets rid of it. Then they could sell it out of their van around their neighborhood.

“Not sure I like the look in your eye, Mickey,” Ian whispers next to him. Flustered, he snaps out of it, freaking out a little again how Ian seems to be more often than not able to know what he’s thinking. “I told you I’ve started to understand how your brain works. You’re pretty easy to read.”

“Would you stop that shit!” Mickey barks out, taking a step back and watching Ian resentfully as he laughs at him.

“Boys, I see you are getting along. What a wonderful sight,” Principal Allen says in lieu of greeting.

“Principal Allen,” Ian replies politely.

“I take it the study sessions are going well? I trust Mickey is attending as he’s promised, Ian?”

“Yes, he’s been nothing but exemplary,” Ian answers with, what Mickey can only describe as, his boy scout charisma.

“Excellent! Wonderful indeed,” Principal Allen exclaims, rubbing his hands, before sliding them in the pockets of his dress pants. “Seeing all these bruises on you two I was afraid you might have gotten into a fight.”

“Nah, we just study hard,” Mickey retorts, fake smile in place.

“Well, whatever stimulates the ol’ cranium, right? But please make sure to seek medical attention. Those finger shaped bruises look painful,” Principal Allen says, wincing in sympathy, as he scrutinizes Mickey’s throat. “I would send you to the nurse’s ward, but we had to shut that down due to budgetary cuts three years ago and haven’t been able to re-open it ever since. Among other issues we recently had to invest in better locks around the chemistry labs. A lot of flammable materials kept disappearing. The police were getting a little concerned by the amount and so we were forced to funnel money into solving that problem. So please make sure to get any injuries taken care of outside of school, yes?”

Mickey just exhales annoyed. He wishes Principal Allen would just butt out of his business already. His throat has been hurting off and on again, but it's getting better.

“We will, thanks, Principal Allen,” Ian responds smiling.

Principal Allen eyes both of them for a moment, visibly wanting to say something and then turns to Mickey again.

“Interesting night I had. I was called by campus security. Apparently somebody broke into school last night. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

“Nope,” Mickey replies lazily, confident that he’s in the clear. There are no cameras on school grounds and the security guard shouldn’t know him, so there is nothing that Principal Allen could use against him.

“You perhaps, Ian?” Principal Allen prompts amiably.

“No, sir, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Ian answers.

“Good, good…” Principal Allen says, bobbing his head.

“Can we piss off now?”

“Mickey,” Ian hisses quietly and bumps against him in clear warning.

Mickey rolls his eyes and clears his throat.

“Is there anything else we can help you with?” Mickey corrects himself.

“Can I just say again how elated I am that you two have become such good friends? Really, just terrific,” Principal Allen says, eyeing the both of them. Next to him Ian just smiles back, not really sure what to reply to that. “Did you know that I am rather fond of my sleep?”

“Here we go again…” Mickey mutters under his breath in reaction to Principal Allen’s odd segue. He’ll never understand his whimsical nature.

“I can’t sleep much, so when I do get to sleep I rather cherish that time very much. Being woken up in the middle of the night because there is an issue at school just really galls me, boys. Especially if it’s something so inane. Somebody broke in here and when confronted by security just ran away. Interesting though is that Glenn, last night’s security detail, gave me a description of the young man he was chasing. Poor Glenn ended up being pushed and locked into a broom closet by somebody whose description sounded awfully familiar.”

“Devilishly handsome?” Mickey asks.

“Shut up, Mickey,” Ian whispers emphatically next to him.

“Do you really not have any idea what happened here last night?” Principal Allen asks again, eyeing them curiously.

“As we said, we have no clue,” Mickey replies, playing innocent.

“Hmm… Oh, well, seems like there’s nothing I can do, right?”

“Seems like it,” Mickey responds, shrugging.

“But you see, boys, this whole thing is just really inconveniencing me. If I can’t tell campus security today I’ve found out which student broke in here last night, I will have to conduct an entire investigation. During which campus security will determine current security measures inadequate which requires me to authorize a new, if only temporary, security protocol, lest I want to be harassed by the PTA. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to our precious, mostly _minor_ , students, right? This leads to a whole slew of problems though. First, we don’t have the budget for an upgrade in security. Locks, remember, boys? Second, that’s a whole lot of paperwork which Mickey can attest to I already have enough on my desk, right?” He says, turning to Mickey who grinds his teeth angrily upon the pointed dig. “Third, I just really don’t want to deal with any of that. So, I have decided I will just pick a student who is going to have to take the fall for this. What do you say, Mickey? Detention twice a week until Christmas?”

“What the- you can’t just do that! You don’t have any proof that Mickey did it,” Ian says utterly scandalized.

“I know, Ian, you are so right. Very despotic of me. I feel just absolutely terrible about that! How about we make things a little better for Mickey here? You can join him, Ian,” Principal Allen responds jovially. “That works out, right? Since you two have become such good friends. I feel it best to have you there, Ian, to _look out_ for him, don’t you?”

“Hey, just leave him out of it. I’ll do it, okay? No need to bring him into this,” Mickey says, stepping forward. He can’t believe he got into another of these situations with this guy.

“Mickey, he doesn’t have any grounds to do this to you,” Ian retorts outraged.

“I don’t and yet I do,” Principal Allen merely responds, shrugging. “So, detention it is?”

“Yeah…” Mickey mutters, giving in.

“Splendid!” Principal Allen replies and then turns to Ian. “How about you?”

“Come on, man, this isn’t necessary. I already said I’d do it,” Mickey cuts in, exhaling in frustration.

“No, it’s alright, Mickey. I’m not gonna leave you alone in this,” Ian says, glaring spitefully at Principal Allen.

“Admirable friendship. Truly, I am a fan. Since this has been taken care of, please excuse me I have a phone call to make in my office,” Principal Allen says, ready to leave, but ends up turning around one more time. “Somebody needs to pay for the damaged locker. Seems these incidents might be related and since you know about our little budget deficit, I will leave it up to you boys to decide who will make an appropriate donation to our school.”

With that he walks away in direction of his office, leaving Mickey and Ian alone standing in the hallway.

“I see it now. Principal Allen is a jackass,” Ian comments.

“Is what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Mickey replies and then averts his eyes to the floor. “Sorry, you shouldn’t have gotten mixed up in this.”

Ian sighs, falling into step next to him on their way to class.

“Just means you owe me more,” Ian says.

“I don’t like the look in _your_ eye, now, man,” Mickey points out warily to which in response Ian just laughs again.

“Your ass belongs to me now, Milkovich,” Ian declares, grinning like the devil.

LT ->\-------- ♡ --------<\- LT

A month passes and Mickey seems to spend the majority of the time with Ian, be it at school, at the Gallagher’s for their after school study sessions, or spending their pastime somewhere outside, getting shitfaced and fooling around. What seemed a curse in the beginning when he was forced to agree to going to class and spend his time studying has now turned into a welcome distraction from Terry. Terry himself has been busy with aggressively pushing Daryl’s turf back more and more, having already lead to two separate shootouts, which thankfully he wasn’t involved in this time. While he isn’t happy about the overall development, at least it keeps Terry busy and off his back. He’s hit quite the snag with his business ever since word got around he is shifting his actual dealings outside of school. Especially Andre has been needling him on, making it all to clear that if he isn’t actually dealing on his turf, it’s up for grabs and he’s just waiting to pounce. The only reason why he’s been able to hold him at arm’s length is because he’s threatened to tell Terry about his and his brother’s little snitching endeavor. If word got out that they’ve continued to pick a fight with the Milkoviches, even the main gang wouldn’t back them anymore as they’ve already created enough havoc on the streets of South Side. But it still doesn’t solve his actual problem of distributing his product. It won’t be long until Terry is questioning where Mickey’s returns are. Albeit being a massive asshole Principal Allen seems to have kept his word so far and did not hand over his incident report. But as promised it looks like he is keeping tabs on Mickey, leaving him no choice but to make sure to adhere to their deal. Which means dealing on school grounds is out of the question. Unfortunately, more than half of his regulars have already told him they won’t meet him outside of school, too afraid they’d get busted by the police after hearing about his cousin’s trading spot having gotten raided only two weeks ago. Add on top of that they had to suspend most of their gun trades while Terry was in prison. Terry has been back hot and heavy at it ever since his release, but it doesn’t quite change the fact that the Milkovich reputation has taken a serious hit. If Terry finds out he’s not dealing on the hottest real estate around the block, that he might even lose it, he’ll be in shit trouble.

It might be time to hand over the reigns to his cousins. The twins just started this year and were supposed to take over when Mickey dropped out of school, but looking at the current situation he doesn’t think they can afford to wait and lose their regulars while Mickey tries to find a way to deal on school grounds again. But to say he is reluctant to get the twins involved is an understatement. A rock has a higher IQ than those two combined. They can’t handle money, nor can they do the simplest drug fractions. He is still holding hope out for Mandy since it’s now been decided she’ll be released early, but Mandy has never actually been involved in their family’s drug dealings. Mickey doesn’t think she’d be overly interested to start now either.

He’ll need to figure something out soon, but between going to school, detention, and the study sessions with Ian he hasn’t had much time. Especially ever since he’s agreed to devote his time helping Ian figure out what the blackout did to them. Having relocated their study sessions to the Gallagher’s, since Ian has to take care of his siblings most nights, Ian has taken the opportunity to keep him afterward to test out their _bond_ as he has taken up to calling it now. That Mickey has found himself actually wanting to do more homework as to stall a little bit more time every day is a testament to how reluctant he is about doing this. At least dropping by the Gallagher’s most nights means he gets to eat Ian’s sister’s home cooked meals. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be content with going back to canned ravioli or soggy sandwiches.

Letting himself in by the front door, Mickey weaves through the by now familiar mess that is the Gallagher house. While walking by the couch, he rescues Betsy from underneath Shelly and Lacey and then hands her over to Debbie in passing who’s just entered the living room to check on the kids.

“Hi Mickey,” she says as she adjusts the toddler in her arms.

“Hey,” Mickey returns distractedly from the kitchen, his eyes already glued to the pot in the oven.

“Mickey,” Fiona greets, the corner of her lips rising in amusement upon seeing him eyeing her casserole. “Ian’s not back yet.”

“Where is he? His ass got out of school two hours earlier than mine,” Mickey asks wondering as he bypasses Liam on his chair at the table to hang his jacket on the wall.

“Errands,” she says, being awfully reticent in her reply.

“Okay…” Mickey retorts puzzled. “When’s he back?”

“Should be any minute now. Let’s set the table already, food’s done,” she replies, opening the oven and letting out the steam. Mickey’s mouth waters at the delicious smell wafting through the kitchen.

He hands Fiona the plates and then reaches for the glasses in the cupboard. Briefly glancing toward Fiona who is laying out the cutlery, he pulls out a few crumpled bills from his pocket and then sneaks them into the Gallaghers’ squirrel fund. On average he’s been eating almost five meals a week at their house, he finds it only right if he also contributes. It’s not like the Gallaghers swim in money. The Liam kid doesn’t even have shoes that properly fit him. And while he’s strapped for money as well, due to virtually no income in the past few weeks and having to pay for the damages at school, the only person he’s got to look out for is himself, unlike Ian and Fiona. Filling the glasses with tab water he walks over placing them on the table, right before Fiona sets the wonderfully glistening casserole between them.

“Don’t tell Carl, but I snuck carrots in there. Gotta get some vitamins in the kid,” she says and calls him and Debbie to the kitchen for dinner.

“ _I_ am having dinner with my boyfriend,” Debbie replies, clearly a jibe directed at Fiona. “Don’t wait up.”

“Oh, I’m waiting up, Debs. I’m waiting up right in front of his house if I have to,” Fiona digs back and then screams for Carl again, her calls probably drowned by the loud hip hop music coming from the second floor.

“Urgh, I hate you!” Debbie screams, but already used to this little tête-à-tête Fiona just ignores her and stomps up the stairs to go get Carl.

“Keep your eyes on the ground when you enter,” Mickey warns her.

“I know the drill. This is the third brother I’ve had to go through this with,” Fiona merely shouts back, vanishing up the stairs.

“So? Boyfriend, huh?” Mickey asks, reaching for the casserole and promptly burning his hand on the hot dish. “Motherfucker!”

“ _Technically_ he isn’t my boyfriend. Well, he just doesn’t know he’s my boyfriend yet,” Debbie says while playing with the kids in the living room.

“That’s why there is nothing scarier than a teenage girl,” Mickey mutters, wiggling his burnt hand in the air.

“I just haven’t gotten him to see me as a woman yet. You know, as a potential partner?”

“You been naked in front of him yet?” Mickey asks while cutting out a piece of casserole with the spatula.

“What? No. Not yet,” she replies, snapping her head curiously to Mickey. “Do you think I should get naked for him?”

“That usually makes the intentions pretty clear, don’t they?” Mickey retorts, shrugging, more focused on the casserole on his plate in front of him.

Before Mickey can actually dig into his food the kitchen door opens and Ian walks in. On the porch, flush to the back door lying, is Frank passed out.

“That your dad?” Mickey asks, pointing his knife at the sleeping man Ian had just climbed over. In the month he’s been regularly coming over to the Gallagher’s this is actually the first time he’s seen Frank.

“Yeah, don’t mind Frank,” he replies and bangs the door closed. He’s managed to ditch his crutches by now and he got rid of his cast, but he’s still very much attached to his brace.

“Where’ve you been?” Mickey asks, watching as Ian throws his backpack in the corner and sheds his jacket.

“Errands,” Ian replies, saying hi to his little sister and walking over to place a kiss on Liam’s temple.

“Mmm-hmm,” Mickey says, narrowing his eyes at him curiously.

Ian doesn’t seem to notice and just plops down in front of him, reaching for the glass of water. The music cuts off from upstairs and shortly afterward Fiona is walking back down.

“Carl has plans with his drug gangbangers,” Fiona states heavenward and sighs, rubbing her face in frustration. “I swear he’s gonna crash his hearing next month, if he keeps hanging out and trying to emulate them.”

“What’s he done this time?” Ian asks while filling up Liam’s plate.

“Oh, he’s got a new hairstyle. Haven’t you seen it yet?” She replies, clearly aggravated and gets a beer from the fridge.

Ian looks over to Mickey, eyebrow raised quizzically, but since Mickey hasn’t seen it yet himself, he just shrugs in response.

Mickey levels the fork with his mouth, finally wanting to get started eating when they hear a loud motor revving from the back of the house.

“What the hell?” Fiona says perplexed and heads over to the kitchen window behind Mickey to check what’s going on. “Is he serious?”

Sighing irritated, Mickey drops his fork on the plate and turns around, wondering what lead to the current commotion.

“Jesus…” Ian mutters, exhaling speechlessly.

“Didn’t peg your brother for the motorcycle guy,” Mickey quips when he sees who is getting off a shiny black Yamaha at the back gate.

Groaning, Fiona swings the door open, glowering at Lip climbing up the back porch.

“Yo,” Lip greets, stepping over Frank and inside the kitchen.

“A motorcycle, Lip, really? You don’t even know how to ride one of these,” Fiona says incredulously.

“Do now,” Lip merely replies as he heads to the fridge to get a beer. “Gears, accelerator… Not that complicated.”

“Brakes,” Fiona helpfully supplies.

“I have you for that,” Lip retorts, taking a swig.

“Oh, just extraordinary, Lip. Any funny remarks for when you split your head open on the pavement?” Fiona shoots back.

“Dude, you weren’t even wearing a helmet,” Ian comments concerned.

“How about everyone just butts out of my business, yeah? Can we do that? Great,” Lip replies and then heads for the stairs.

Fiona steps in, blocking his way, not done yet with this conversation.

“Where did you get that motorcycle?”

By the looks of it, it almost seems new, Mickey thinks as he takes another look at the bike outside.

“Won it in a poker game. See, counting cards is really not that difficult, especially if you play against a bunch of entitled North Side pricks,” Lip explains, indifferent to it all.

“Jesus Christ, Lip. Do you really think they’ll just let you have it? They’ll call the cops on you and make up some shit lie about you having stolen it,” Fiona says, holding both hands in front of her, almost pleading with him to properly listen to her.

“Unlike you, Fiona, I know what I’m doing. I have it sorted out,” Lip replies.

“Sorted out? Like you had it sorted out when you hustled those Romanian _human traffickers_ from the club out of their car and crashed it? They almost killed you, Lip!”

“Somebody had to make some quick cash when _you_ decided to gamble our family money, gamble our house, Fiona!” Lip yells back, getting in her face.

“I was trying to better our situation, Lip,” Fiona replies earnestly.

“A unilateral decision on what you deemed best. You don’t get to make these calls by yourself, Fiona! Especially not now when we have to deal with Carl’s hearing and with Ian’s-”

“Lip!” Ian cuts in angrily.

Lip snaps his head from Fiona to Ian and then seems to remember they’re not alone when he looks over to Mickey. Exhaling through his nose, he turns back to Fiona. Mickey briefly glances to Ian inquiringly, wondering what that was about, but Ian pointedly pretends not to notice.

“Not your call anymore, Fiona,” Lip says, finishing his point.

“And your solution is to steal a bunch of cars and motorcycles? You’re being reckless and destructive, Lip. All these stunts of yours? Gone for days, coming home beaten up, pulling these crazy scams? Can’t you see how dangerous this is?” Fiona says, upset and worried. “Is that what you want to go down for? Grand theft auto? Jesus, Lip, would you just snap out of it already!”

“Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you? You must have picked up something from Jimmy, right? Or, sorry, was it Steve? That ex-boyfriend of yours that stole cars for a living? How about you come down from your high, high horse and stop being a hypocrite for one damn minute?”

“Lip,” Ian tries, having put a bit of a warning in his voice that he’s starting to go too far.

From what Mickey has heard from Ian and Debbie, Fiona’s boyfriend recently up and vanished without even saying good-bye to her. Which seems to be still a sore topic in the Gallagher house.

“Oh, no, please, Ian. Let us hear what she has to say. She can fuck a career criminal, but can still lecture us about what is right and wrong. Oh, yeah, and not to forget that your new _friend_ here, Ian, is going in and out of our house with Fi’s permission when his own father cripples teenage kids in his pastime. I would like for you to understand, Fiona, that lecturing us about what to do with our lives is coming from a highly misguided moral high ground and is so far outside of your authority that you should quickly realize that you need to stop playing the goddamn matriarch around here!”

Fiona visibly recoils, staring at him, stuttering to respond.

“I’m just trying to take care of you the best I can, Lip, can’t you see that?” She says meekly, tears welling up in her eyes.

“All I can see, Fiona, is you thinking you have any right to tell me how to live my life. Telling all of us how to live our lives,” Lip replies and then passes by her, disappearing up the stairs.

“Fiona…” Ian tries, but Fiona just shakes her head and waves him off. She takes her jacket and purse and then heads for the door.

“Ungrateful little jerk isn’t he?” Frank grumbles, slowly stirring, trying and failing to get up from the ground.

“Shut up, Frank,” Fiona shoots back angrily and steps over him, leaving.

“Smartest kid in the room and yet… to a close observer it might seem that the pathological need to self-sabotage… stems from the laughable inability to figure out his role in his own life…” Frank slurs, heaving himself up with the help of the door frame.

“Shut up, Frank,” Ian says absolutely fed up as he gets up on his feet and bangs the door close directly in Frank’s face. For good measure he also locks the door and then turns around, exhaling a deep sigh of frustration.

“For the record, Lip wasn’t entirely wrong with what he said, but he really was being a jerk,” Debbie says subdued.

“Yeah…” Ian agrees, brushing his hand over his face.

“Jesus Christ, I lost my appetite,” Mickey says, shoving the plate away from him. Way to ruin that perfect casserole, Mickey thinks.

Ian looks at him, worn out, and nods.

“Lemme just feed Liam and then we can head up and start on homework,” Ian replies.

“I’ll do it. Go,” Debbie chimes in and Mickey can’t help but eye her curiously. “I’ll cancel my plans, stay home tonight,” she explains and shrugs.

“Thanks, Debs,” Ian says and then nods for Mickey to follow him.

While this isn’t the first outburst from Lip Mickey has witnessed since being a regular at the Gallagher’s, it’s definitely the most hostile so far. He has seen him come home bruised and bloody, withdrawn, or shitfaced drunk. But letting his frustrations out on Fiona like that, it’s just a new low.

“Your brother is an asshole,” Mickey says as they walk up the stairs.

“He never loses his temper with me, Debbie, Carl, and Liam. It’s just Fiona he can be hard on at times. I think it’s because while Fiona has done the most in raising us, Lip came in second, having taken as much burden from Fi as he could. More often than not it was the two of them together trying to figure out how to look out for us, how to make ends meet, while at the same time somehow dealing with Monica and Frank, you know? They took the brunt of it. Even though there is not much of an age difference between Lip and me, I was the youngest when it was just the three of us for quiet some time until Debbie was born, so they tended to shield me from as much as possible. Lip has always been very perceptive. Acted a lot maturer than his age in order to help Fiona out, so I think he sees himself more as a partner to Fiona rather than just her kid brother. Which is why he can be a bit unforgiving at times when he doesn’t see eye to eye with her,” Ian explains, coming to a stop before the top landing, turning around to Mickey behind him. “I wonder sometimes if I haven’t relied a bit too much on Lip to pick up the slack for me. He’d bring me to the bus station and give me the money for my school trip and then head off to track down Frank to somehow get him to cough up some of his disability check cash so that we could cover food for the next week while Fi was at home nursing Debbie, never even thinking so much about his own school outings. Maybe if I had done more to help, Lip wouldn’t feel this responsible about us. Maybe he would have started to think about himself more. What he wanted to do with his own life? College or whatever really, you know? Just something that isn’t about us. Maybe then he wouldn’t be struggling so much right now,” he says, sighing and then turns around to open the boys room.

When Mickey follows him he sees Lip standing in the door to his room, beer bottle in one hand, eyes downcast. When their eyes meet Mickey simply raises his eyebrow, pitying the sight in front of him and then closes the door behind him.

He’s about to tell Ian that if Lip thinks he needs to fuck up his life, then that’s on him, it’s not Ian’s responsibility to worry about that, when he does a double-take upon seeing Carl with cornrows standing in front of them.

“So that’s what Fiona meant…” Mickey murmurs as he eyes the tightly braided scalp as if it were out of this world.

“Nice hairstyle…” Ian offers politely, visibly unsure what else to say.

“Tight, right?” Carl says smirking.

Mickey watches as Carl ties his red Adidas sneakers and wonders where the kid got them. Knowing the Gallaghers there is no way they could afford those. And while the gold bling, sports watch, and track suit are knockoffs for sure, Mickey doubts he actually paid for those either. Carl grabs his bag, nods his chin in their direction, his way of saying good-bye, and heads outside.

“He’s looked in the mirror and knows he’s white, right?” Mickey says, gesturing to where Carl vanished just a few seconds ago.

Ian makes this complicated face, not really sure what to reply to that and simply heads for his bed, sitting down. Mickey shuts the door and follows, pulling out his books and notes from his backpack to start on his homework. He still can’t quite get used to this new status quo of actually sitting down, doing his homework, and studying. He still feels completely alien in this setting, but weirdly enough having to go through this with Ian isn’t half bad. Is even fun at times and Mickey really doesn’t know what to think of that. His brain helpfully provides that he doesn’t have a choice about this arrangement and it’s not like he has come to like these after school sessions with Ian or that he might even look forward to them. His brain is really busy lately as it keeps pointing this out more and more, especially when Mickey entertains the thought that maybe, maybe he’s made a friend.

Ian and Mickey sit side by side against the wall as they both look into their shared book, reading currently through the middle of Act III of Macbeth. Trying to decipher the old language, Ian writes down notes in the margins based on their understanding and interpretation. Well, mostly Ian’s thoughts on it as Mickey’s comments so far boiled down to Macbeth being a _dick_ about killing his friend and his wife being an _ambitious psycho bitch_ as Mickey has phrased it.

“Okay, here’s a tip for the upcoming test. Whenever you want to write dick, asshole, jackass, or bitch, how about you just write why you think they deserve to be called that,” Ian says, the corner of his lips rising into a small smile.

“The guy screwed over his best friend after his power hungry wife planted the idea of murder in his head. How does that not translate into them being dicks?” Mickey asks indignantly.

“Just try to focus on why they did that. What were their motives and reasoning?” Ian replies amused.

“Those nutjob witches-” Mickey starts to say when Ian directs a pointed look at him. He rolls his eyes and starts over. “Those _witches_ prophesized Macbeth would become king.”

“So, why would he want to kill Banquo?” Ian asks, flipping through the pages.

“Because they also said Banquo’s kid would take the throne as well. Guess the sucker felt threatened,” Mickey replies.

“Add sucker to the list of words to avoid,” Ian says distractedly, marking a few keywords with a highlighter. “Just write what you just said without calling them names and refer to the initial prophecy and then to Macbeth’s soliloquy here and you should be fine.”

“Fine, watch my language, got it,” Mickey responds and takes the book from Ian’s hand to read the paragraph he marked for him.

Ian chuckles next to him quietly and writes down his own notes. Leaning closer he looks over Mickey’s shoulder to copy some of the keywords, distractedly nibbling on the pen in his mouth. Mickey watches as the pen glides over Ian’s bottom lip, watches how Ian’s lips make a seal around the hard plastic, how they loosen and tighten ever so slightly. He sees a hint of tongue whenever Ian pulls the pen out to write something down and white front teeth biting absent-mindedly on his lower lip when he concentrates. He has to admit that for some reason this alien-like look Ian has going for him is quiet handsome. Can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to have someone who looks like Ian blow him with that mouth of his back when he was still meeting guys in back alleys or in parks. He hasn’t had sex ever since he had been caught fucking Scott in the guidance counselor’s office. Has felt increasingly pent up ever since. Once he’s tried to fuck Angie Zargo to find some kind of release, but to his humiliation he couldn’t get it up, blamed it on whiskey dick, and then fled after shouting threats at her to keep her mouth shut. Since then he’s resigned himself to a depressing partnership between his dick and his hand. Has been jerking off so much his palm almost got blisters. Before Terry was released from the joint, he had his spots where he felt safe enough to go and hook up with someone. Even had Scott he could sneak away with when he really needed to get the edge off. Going to zero abruptly has been a hard adjustment. Especially when he suddenly finds even this ginger motherfucker attractive with all his freckles and pale skin.

Mickey swallows and then snaps out of it, tries to concentrate on the printed words in front of him. Ian reaches for the book and turns the page, brushing in the process over Mickey’s hand, eliciting the by now familiar reaction from the contact. Mickey glares at him, knowing full well that Ian did it on purpose. Ever since he agreed to help Ian investigate their _bond_ he’s been stealing touches here and there when he thinks he can get away with it. Much to Mickey’s chagrin. He doesn’t understand why Ian insists on doing this when Mickey has already agreed, albeit begrudgingly, to an allocated time every day they see each other where Ian can freely _explore_ their connection, provided they are alone, they keep what the blackout did to them as a secret from everyone, and Ian adheres to the time limit Mickey set. Ian’s eagerness in trying to figure out what the blackout did to them has been challenging Mickey’s patience day by day. Ian has been scouring the internet for more testimonies of people like them. Has been pouring over the social media posts of the Irish teenage girl and especially of the nutjob Indian guy, being absolutely fascinated by the parallels between them. His unbridled enthusiasm has let to multiple experiments Mickey had to suffer through whenever Ian has come up with yet another idea of testing their bond. Ian’s zeal has filled two notebooks of their _experiment logs_ by now and Mickey has yet to see him tire out. Glaring at him now, he can see Ian is already impatient for today’s session, barely focusing on their studies anymore.

Mickey sighs audibly and snaps the book shut, tossing it further down the bed. He scratches his eyebrow with his thumb, glancing over to Ian, only to see him waiting in poorly concealed excitement for his go-ahead. He sighs again.

“So, what is it you want to test out today?” Mickey asks wearily.

“I’ve been emailing Rajan and I think we should try out if we can’t visit each other in our dreams,” Ian shoots back eagerly, leaning over the bed’s side to retrieve his blackout notes he usually stashes under the bed.

“What now?” Mickey asks incredulously.

“We should see if we can’t communicate like Rajan and Kala. Their bond allows them to see and speak to each other when he is sleeping. Rajan says his dreams allow him to transfer his thoughts and feelings to her. She hasn’t woken up from her coma, but he can communicate with her every night, knows she is still there. We should try out if we can’t do that too!” Ian says while beginning to scribble down today’s notes.

“Ian, the guy is a whacko, probably perving on a poor lady in the hospital. Why have you started emailing the dude?” Mickey retorts disbelievingly.

“Rajan is a good guy and it’s not like I have that many options,” Ian replies, nibbling on that damn pen again.

“You could not engage with a nutjob. That is an option,” Mickey says grumpily.

“You agreed,” he reminds him much like he has to do most times when Ian proposes another of his experiments.

In the beginning they boiled down to playing around with their bond, seeing how much he can manipulate the sensation. After a while it evolved to trying out different body parts. Moved away from hands and arms to having to allow Ian to touch his legs, knees, ears, and later even his face. He felt like a damn dog being probed at the vet. He almost decked the guy when he squeezed and prodded his nose. Since then his face has become a no-touch zone, which he vehemently defends when Ian starts to get carried away again.

“I am not your lab rat! Your experiments have gotten out of hand. I will not sleep test our…” Mickey struggles to find an appropriate word, still reluctant to name what this is between them out loud.

“Bond,” Ian says.

“Stop calling it that,” Mickey grumbles, shooting him an annoyed look.

“Refusing to call it bond will not change what it is,” Ian merely replies, finishing writing down what he wants to try out today in his experiment log.

“It’s not a soul bond, Ian, for fuck’s sake,” Mickey retorts exasperated.

“You don’t know that.”

“ _You_ don’t know that,” Mickey shoots back irritated.

“Stop being difficult, Mickey. I wanna try this out,” Ian says.

“I’m being difficult? I have entertained all of your ridiculous experiments so far. When will you stop with this shit and finally give up on this crazy research of yours?” Mickey responds aggravated, remembering everything he had to endure under Ian’s flights of lunacy already.

By now they have tried out multiple of Ian’s outlandish theories: mind-reading, telepathy, emotional transference, human GPS tracking. Mickey had to sit in front of Ian for an entire hour as the latter tried to project his thoughts into Mickey’s _mind_ which ultimately just meant being glared at by an increasingly frustrated Ian when he failed to receive _purple monkey_. He remembers that night where he was constantly chastised to pick an emotion other than annoyance to _transfer_ to Ian, being criticized for his _lacking technique_. Not to mention last week’s five-day long game of hide and seek during which Ian tried to repeatedly _sense_ where Mickey was, because the Irish best friends insist they can do that. Ian only managed to find him once when Mickey ended up retreating to his favorite spot on the roof during lunch break and by the very disappointed look on Ian’s face it was clear that the bond had nothing to do with Ian finding him in the end.

“I’m not giving up, Mickey. I will find out what this is and you promised to help me,” Ian replies, meeting his eyes, his brows furrowed in a mix of impatience and frustration.

“So, what, you want to sleep at the same time and try to _meet_ in our dreams?” He says and sounding it out loud does not make it any less ridiculous, Mickey thinks. “Wouldn’t that already have happened by now if it were possible?”

“Rajan says we need to touch while sleeping, otherwise it won’t work,” Ian explains and Mickey’s eyes almost bug out at hearing that.

“No way! I am not s-sleeping with you! Fuck off, Gallagher,” Mickey replies outraged.

“Just one night, Mickey! Come on, please,” Ian pleads, edging closer when Mickey scrambles away.

“No fucking way! You’re out of your mind!” Mickey says and almost falls out of the bed when trying to get away from Ian.

“It’s just holding hands during the night, that’s it. We don’t even have to share a bed. I can sleep on the floor,” Ian tries to persuade Mickey.

“Holding hands-” Mickey stammers incredulously, almost blowing a fuse. “Are you fucking kidding me? Gallagher, you’ve completely lost it! Fuck off, this ends now! I am not doing any more of your insane experiments! I’m out of here!”

Frantically, he grabs his notes and stuffs them in his bag, stumbling toward the door.

“Wait!” Ian says and halts him in his tracks by holding onto his wrist. “Okay, okay, we don’t have to do it. Just- just don’t go.”

Mickey eyes him suspiciously. Finds it hard to ignore the feeling when Ian lets their bond rush through him in waves, almost mimicking his panic. It ebbs slowly when Mickey doesn’t leave, Ian straightening after having had to hobble over to him in his rush. Ian loosens the pressure on his wrist just a little, adjusts the grip, has his fingers brush the slightest bit over his skin, letting the connection now softly percolate through their skin contact. And then he tugs him gently, has the sensation burst almost into a facsimile of a tickle. Ian looks at him from under his lashes in what might be even considered shyly, if Mickey had actually ever seen the guy shy. Mickey suddenly finds the room too hot, feels his neck and cheeks heat, can’t keep the eye contact. He concentrates on breathing evenly, focusing on subduing the sensation from his side, so it won’t spike against his will as it has done a couple of times now in the past when Ian has caught him off-guard.

“I won’t ask you again,” Ian promises softly and when Mickey slowly meets his eyes, guarded, the corner of his lips pull up into a sheepish smile. “Today.”

Mickey’s eyes narrow in annoyance and he tugs his wrist free.

“It won’t ever happen. Forget it, Gallagher. And if you want to keep your five minutes a day, you better stop pushing it,” Mickey says disgruntled.

Ian just shoots him this humoring look and then grabs him by his wrist again to pull him to the bed. Mickey had painstakingly negotiated a time limit in the beginning when this whole testing out their bond business started. Mickey had strictly demanded the touching be limited to one minute whereas Ian had countered with an hour. In the end he managed to glare Ian down to five minutes, which he thought was a victory, but lately Ian barely keeps to the time limit under the pretext of extraordinary experiment paradigms which just _happen_ to require more time during their sessions. Mickey is not amused.

Peeved, Mickey tosses his backpack to the side and then plops down on the mattress. If he has to suffer through this, he wants a smoke. He snatches Ian’s pack from the dresser and has barely lit the cigarette when Ian grabs his hand to start fiddling around with their bond.

“I don’t get how you’re so fascinated by this, man,” Mickey grumbles on an exhale, watching as Ian stares intently at the contact between their hands where he is currently letting the sensation flow back and forth in short little bursts.

“Mickey, I am actually connecting with you on a metaphysical level which apparently only a handful of people in the whole wide world can do, how can you _not_ be fascinated by this?”

“All I hear is we’re freaks,” Mickey says cynically.

Ian stares at him unhappily, but returns his attention back to their bond. He pushes the prickling connection further and further throughout Mickey’s body, travels up his arm and starts trickling through his chest, almost reaching his abdomen. Apart from the first time they connected under the attic Ian never managed to get the sensation to spread throughout their entire bodies. He has made it is his mission to reach the same level of connection as when they had touched for the first time after the blackout, wanting to reach _point zero_ as Ian has dubbed it. He’s tried numerous times and he has managed to reach further bit by bit, but he still hasn’t gotten further than nestling the bond under Mickey’s ribcage.

“Aren’t you curious? Don’t you have questions?” Ian asks, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“Not really,” Mickey answers truthfully, letting the smoke escape his lungs.

He holds the cigarette out for Ian who only juts his chin out in response, not willing to let go of Mickey’s hand which is currently firmly in the grasps of his own. Mickey exhales annoyed through his nose and then places the filter between Ian’s lips, letting the latter take a drag before he snips the ash away in Ian’s makeshift ashtray.

He lets Ian trail the scar on his hand from his gunshot wound with his index finger, feels how their bond snaps together like magnets from one side to the other and watches how Ian stares at the connected skin, following the invisible link move to his will. He tries again to push the link further up Mickey’s arm, rounds his shoulder, and then pulsates in his chest, having come to a stop. Mickey watches Ian’s single-minded focus as he concentrates on moving their bond further along, watches how his brows furrow, how his chin is set. And if Mickey were his old self, he would pull his hand away and bark at Ian that his five minutes are up. Would watch the disappointment show on Ian’s face, the resignation. He sends a little hum through the established connection instead and Ian startles out of his frustration, looks up to meet his eyes and Mickey does it again, in the process pulling the sensation a little further where Ian wants it. Ian smiles, feels visibly encouraged and tries again, letting the bond spread over the broad expanse of his upper torso. The small smile lasts, stays with Ian, and Mickey can’t seem to mourn not being quiet his old self anymore.

“Will you tell me what Lip’s dig from earlier was all about?” Ian says softly after a few minutes, still playing around with their bond.

While he knew Ian was never going to ignore the comment Lip had made, Mickey still had held out hope that he could somehow get away with not having to give an explanation.

“Not if I don’t have to,” Mickey says, leaning his arm against the top of his propped up leg.

Ian lets the bond pulsate in soft little waves, distractedly playing around with it.

“Can’t you tell me anyway?” He asks quietly, his focus still split between the conversation and their bond.

Mickey sighs and then lights another cigarette, blowing the first drag of smoke up in direction of the ceiling.

“My dad just got released from prison for battery. Four years ago he beat up a guy I knew from juvie,” Mickey starts to explain. “Things got ugly and he ended up in the hospital for several months. Emergency surgery, coma, and all that shit.”

“Shit,” Ian says, looking up from their hands, the bond forgotten for a moment. “What happened?”

“It was a week after I got out of juvie. Just got home from doing my hours of community service. Terry was standing on the sidewalk in front of our house. Matt was lying on the ground beneath him, got punched and kicked, was roughed up good. When Matt tried to get away he stumbled onto the road and, bad timing I guess, a car fucking hit him,” he explains, taking a drag from his cigarette and blowing it out through his nose, not meeting Ian’s eyes. “It was an accident.”

“An accident? The car maybe, but not your dad. Why did he attack your friend?” Ian asks.

“Not my friend,” Mickey retorts, but continues anyway. “Don’t know. Looked at my dad wrong?”

Mickey shrugs, inhaling another bout of smoke.

“Jesus Christ… He must have said something to you, right?”

Mickey sees the scene play out again in front of his mental eye.Sees how Terry looked at him when he spotted him.SeesTerry’s mouth moving as he punched Matt over and over. Seesthe blood splatters on the ground.

“Didn’t say anything,” Mickey replies, his eyes downcast, resting on his hand in Ian’s.

“What about the guy, Matt?” Ian asks and Mickey can feel his eyes on him, burning hot and uncomfortable.

“After he was out of the woods he moved to family on the east coast. Never spoke to him,” Mickey says. Not that he allowed the opportunity. He never visited him in the hospital.

“Fuck, man, that’s messed up. Sorry about your friend,” Ian replies and it doesn’t look like he even notices that he’s gently squeezing Mickey’s hand.

“Not my friend,” Mickey merely repeats, exhales the last of his cigarette and puts it out.

“Still,” Ian says. “It must have had something to do with you, right? Why else would the guy be at your house?”

“Don’t fucking know, okay?” Mickey retorts.

When he meets Ian’s eyes, he wishes he hadn’t. Recognizes the disappointment in them and while he usually doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks about him, he wonders why he feels like crap now. Ian has increasingly come to see through his bullshit. He knows he isn’t fooled for a second into believing Mickey doesn’t know, but there are things he will never be able to share. Mickey hasn’t been a hundred percent honest with anyone since perhaps his mom died. The friends he hangs out with on occasion are his gun friends, his getting high friends, his beating somebody up friends. They see him in exactly the light they want to see him and the way he wants to be seen. Same goes for his siblings. In his family everyone does their own thing; they don’t sit down and share. The fuck does he really know about his brothers and Mandy? There are things he will never be able to share with anyone. Not his friends, not his family, and not Ian. And that’s okay, he thinks. Wants to believe that. He can be an island. He doesn’t need anyone. If he wanted more, he wouldn’t be able to go on. Fuck this tied up knot deep inside his chest, that not even their bond can reach. He’s lived with this feeling for so long, he can go longer – a lifetime if he has to. Now, if a lifetime wouldn’t sound so much like forever, he might not feel so desolate.

He averts his gaze, watches the raindrops patter against the window instead, looks beyond them into the dark and thinks he should head out soon. Should make his way home. As warm and cozy as he is at the moment, this isn’t his place to be. He pulls his hand out of Ian’s and the blanketing comfort from just a second ago disperses with it.

Ian’s arm shoots forward and he grabs a hold of Mickey’s hand again, pulling it back. Mickey’s eyes snap up to look at Ian and sees him scrutinizing him, his face unreadable.

“Don’t go,” he says again.

The way Ian looks at him, soft and earnest, the warmth coming from his hand, and the subtle bond gently reaching out to him has Mickey’s breath stuck inside his lungs. The fuck does he understand why he keeps feeling so out of his element the more time he spends with Ian. Two innocuous words manage to completely overwhelm him. Has him forget how he needs to act around other people, how he needs to _react_ to other people in a situation like this. He only knows his instincts scream to let go of Ian’s hand. Muscle memory has his fingers twitch in response. The scathing words already cocked and ready to fire. But the words don’t come, his hand remains where it is, the will to fall into old patterns lost in the presence of a certain freckled ginger.

“Your five minutes are up…” Mickey says quietly, still not retrieving his hand, his gaze darting around the room and always glancing back to where Ian keeps staring at him.

“When was the last time I kept to the five-minute limit?” Ian replies, the corner of his lips rising into the smallest hint of a smile.

“Willful bastard,” Mickey grumbles out and then nods subtly, assuring Ian that he isn’t going anywhere.

Smiling to himself, Ian looks back down to Mickey’s hand and rearranges it so he brushes over the _U-UP_ knuckles. Mickey remembers the first time Ian had taken his hand, the very first time when they started exploring the bond, how he snatched it out of his grasp so quickly it might as well have been on fire. How he only allowed Ian to touch him awkwardly at his upper arm in the beginning. How Ian gradually wore him down, unrelentingly working his way further down, persistently coming back to his hand, ignoring the way Mickey kept lashing out when he was uncomfortable, unfaltering in his attempt to get Mickey used to the warmth of Ian’s hands. Determined, Ian made sure that Mickey knew what it felt like to have his hand firmly grasped by somebody else. What it felt like to have fingers trace the lines inside his palms and gently brushing over callouses and scarred tissue. All to the point where Mickey doesn’t even mind anymore. To have to keep fighting something on the basis of arbitrary principals he himself can barely put to words is tiring and seeing somebody continuously brush his attempts off at pushing them away just makes it all the harder to hold onto his irritation.

So he lets Ian hold onto his hand longer, lets him explore their bond further, stays warm a little longer in the by now familiar comfortable dump that is the boys room, and prolongs the inevitable where he needs to return to his own home. All the while he smokes and watches how Ian’s face lights up, his brows furrow in irritation, his mouth pulls into a smile, or his eyes keep stealing glances at him.

Ian groans frustrated when he lets the connection rush back, having it bounce between their palms and fingers.

“Why can’t I get it?” Ian asks in frustration.

“Just give up already,” Mickey replies lazily, inhaling another bout of smoke.

Ian looks at him annoyed and Mickey just shrugs in response.

“You try it,” Ian demands and takes the cigarette out of Mickey’s hand to take his own drag.

“Why do I have to? This is your experiment,” Mickey says irritated, trying to wrench his hand free, but Ian doesn’t let him.

“Mickey,” Ian whines annoyed.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” Mickey grumbles and then sighs as he looks at his hand in Ian’s, wondering how the fuck he is supposed to do this. He usually gets away with doing nothing, simply being the guinea pig that is literally being poked around. He actually doesn’t have that much experience manipulating their bond, only ever tries to keep it in check.

He narrows his eyes, concentrates on the strange sensation vibrating almost dormant in shallow waves through their hands. Mickey gives it a little push, feels the bond listen and softly travel up Ian’s wrist and forearm. He doesn’t get farther than half way to Ian’s elbow when the connection doesn’t trickle further ahead. He’d be content at leaving it at that attempt, but when he looks up to Ian he’s already pointedly raising his eyebrows at him. Mickey stifles the urge to roll his eyes and returns his attention to their invisible bond. Having no clue what to do, he tries to focus on the languidly humming sensation, tries to understand where it begins and where it stops, wonders why it only seems to manifest when their skin touch.

He lets the bond settle back at the only points of contact between them, notices how it doesn’t stretch anymore to accommodate Mickey’s will, how it simply trickles softly slightly back in forth as if it can’t completely come to a rest, similar to the sea constantly being in motion even during the calmest of times. There doesn’t really seem to be a distinct part where the bond _belongs_ to Mickey or to Ian. Ignoring their connected hands Mickey can’t tell where he starts and where Ian ends. Just feels as if the link between them is merely functioning to establish an extension of his self over to Ian and the other way around. Allowing the languid back and forth motion to keep its rhythm, he lets it extend both ways, into Ian and into him. The bond easily complies, expanding in both directions, percolating softly through their arms, over their shoulders into their torsos, reaches down into the rest of their bodies, trickles over their necks and ears, tingling gently underneath the skin of their faces, until it has completely nestled into every corner of their bodies, contently humming in place.

He doesn’t really understand how to construe the way he feels in that moment, looks up to see the wonder mirrored in Ian’s expression. Experiences with bated breath how their bond is humming to the same frequency inside both their bodies, but what might as well just be one, as undeniable as he can sense all of him connecting with all of Ian. And again he doesn’t know where he begins and where Ian ends. Almost drowns in the overwhelming sensation of connectedness.

And Mickey just feels full, feels warm, feels serene, feels right, feels complete, feels…

When he looks up he sees Ian watching him fascinated, absolutely enthralled by what Mickey just managed to do. He watches as Ian’s whimpers flutter ever so slightly in excitement, notices his shimmering green eyes dilate, and the freckled skin around the corner of his lips pull together. Sees him shooting him the most dazzling smile he’s ever seen. And Mickey’s mind goes blank, forgets everything around him. In the moment feels nothing but the bond rooted between them. Feels the gentle and comforting sensation wholly wrapped around him. Feels as if he’s sinking further in it. Threatens to be swallowed any second now. And that’s when his heart pounds hard inside his chest once, twice, three times and he loses control, the bond pulsating erratically, uncontrolled bouncing against the invisible bounds of their bodies until Mickey startles so hard it snaps back and disconnects when he slips his hand out of Ian’s.

“How did you do that?” Ian whispers, watching him mesmerized.

Mickey still doesn’t really compute what just happened, tries to snap out of it by clearing his throat and closes his eyes for a brief moment to get a reprieve from the overstimulation being Ian and their bond. He had reached point zero. Somehow he managed to connect them just as they had on the day beneath the attic.

“I-I don’t know, man,” he stammers upon his exhale.

“That was amazing- Did you feel that? It was… incredible…” Ian says and he just doesn’t stop staring into Mickey’s eyes, the awe and fascination directed at him almost as overwhelming to Mickey as the bond was just a few seconds ago.

“Fuck…” Mickey exhales quietly.

“Can you do it again?” Ian asks, shifting forward, closer to Mickey.

Mickey shakes his head. Doesn’t think he could handle it even if he knew how to replicate the sensation one more time. He is so fucking outside of his element here, he wishes he could just give in to his fight or flight instincts. Escape from the situation like he tended to in the past. But he’s come too far with Ian to pull this kind of stunt again. Can’t even find it in him to entertain that thought longer than a brief moment. Doesn’t feel like he has the will to fight or run away from this. He doesn’t know why, but he is too tired to think of all the reasons why he has to put up his walls. Just wants to give in and not have to analyze exactly how he needs to react, how he is perceived at this given moment, what the fallout of his actions would be.

“What the fuck is happening to us?” He says breathlessly.

And more than wondering what the bond is doing to them, Mickey wonders what Ian is doing to him.

LT ->\-------- ♡ --------<\- LT

Brushing a hand over his face, he exhales as he steps outside onto the porch, overwhelmed by the stimuli overload from earlier. His mind is still reeling from what just happened upstairs, wondering how much they will find out about their bond. Wondering if he’s even mentally prepared for it.

He almost startles when he sees a shape of a person on the front porch steps, not having noticed somebody sitting there in the dark.

“Fiona?” Mickey asks and steps closer.

Fiona turns her head slowly toward Mickey, pensive eyes meeting his. She’s huddled close to her angled legs, her hands wrapped around her arms, brushing over her thin sweater in a slow rhythm.

“The fuck are you doing outside? It’s butt cold,” he says, eyeing the drizzling rain disdainfully.

“Wasn’t ready to go inside yet,” Fiona answers with a shrug.

“I thought you went out? You been here the entire time?” Mickey asks.

“Can’t make it far with a dollar to your name,” she says dejectedly, holding her purse up for emphasis. “Went for a walk around the block.”

“How long did you plan to stay out here?” Mickey asks incredulously to which Fiona just shrugs again. “Jesus Christ, you Gallaghers.”

He shrugs off his jacket and then drapes it over Fiona’s back, sitting down next to her. She gives him a small smile and pulls his jacket tighter around her.

“Got a smoke?” She asks, hopeful.

Mickey snorts out a laugh quietly and then nods to his jacket.

“Left pocket.”

She pulls the pack out and lights a cigarette, visibly relishing the smoke filling her lungs and then holds the cigarette out to him. Mickey takes a drag himself and hands it back, eyeing her curiously. He replays the events from earlier in his mind, recalls the accusations Lip barked at her, and Fiona’s hurt expression, how she fled her own home with tears in her eyes. He turns his gaze down and then up front to the street, exhaling a sigh.

“You know Lip is just behaving like a grade A douchebag, right?” Mickey says, trying to sound comforting, but not really knowing how to do that.

“Mostly, yeah,” Fiona says, staring ahead and blowing out smoke. “But he tends to be right all the time, I can’t help but think about what he said.”

“Bullshit,” Mickey barks out, startling Fiona a little, having her turn around to look at him. “The guy has a fuck load of issues he’s just dumping on you, because you care enough to actually call him out on his shit and he can’t handle it.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t also be right,” Fiona says disheartened, pulling the jacket tighter around her.

“You’re doing the best you can, they know that. Stop beating yourself up about what that asshole said,” he says, not really sure what else to say to make her feel better.

“What if I’m majorly screwing up and I’m not even noticing it? I don’t even have my own life under control. He’s right, how can I tell them how to live theirs…” She scoffs self-deprecatingly, staring ahead and Mickey can see the sadness in her eyes.

Not knowing what to say, he lets his gaze wander up ahead. Bites his lip, not liking how he feels seeing her like that.

“Look, you’re like… their mother, right?” He begins and Fiona looks at him a bit caught off-guard being called that. “That’s what it is, am I wrong? Your deadbeat parents aren’t around or are just shit drunk when they are,” he says, thinking about Frank lying passed out on the back porch. “And so you take care of them. Feed them, clothe them, change their fucking diapers. Care for them… That’s what a mother does, right? Lip is just being teenage rebellious. He’ll come around once he’s acted out enough that he can’t stand to look at his own face in the mirror anymore. Until then just try to be patient, don’t give up, ‘s what a mother would do, right?” He says and doesn’t quite himself understand what he’s talking about.

Fiona looks at him, visibly trying to take Mickey’s words in. Unconsciously, she is pulling on the jacket, cigarette forgotten between her fingers and so Mickey takes it from her, snaps the ash away and takes a drag, looking anywhere but at her.

“But I really don’t know what I’m doing half the fucking time. How can I mother them if I don’t know what I’m doing, when I’m not even their mom,” she whispers and the vulnerability he hears in her voice makes him turn his gaze back to her. He thinks about his own home, thinks about the past years, what it was like growing up in that house.

“If you don’t, who else will do it?” He says, finding it hard to keep meeting her eyes. He shifts his gaze to his shoes where he is toeing at a broken in notch in the wood. “They need you, whether they admit it to you or not. Every home needs a mom.”

The silence settles between them, only the continuous pattering of the rain and the usual Chicago background noise to be heard. And this time it’s Mickey who forgets the cigarette in his hand and Fiona reaches over to take it from him instead, soft fingers brushing over his. Her touch lingers a second longer than necessary and then she drags the cigarette over to her mouth, finishing it and flipping it away.

“Be patient and don’t give up,” she says nodding to herself, audibly more energetic. She turns to him, eyes soft in the way she looks at him. “Thanks, Mickey.”

Mickey averts his eyes and just nods. A thought creeps unwelcome in his mind and he bites his lip, struggling with himself to speak with Fiona about it.

“About what Lip said… about my dad…” He starts, ringing with how to address the subject.

“Doesn’t matter to me, Mickey,” she says when he doesn’t continue and Mickey looks up at that, surprised. “If we were judged by the actions of our fathers, my life would have been fucked the second I was born. Well, more so than it was already destined to be growing up a Gallagher,” she tells him, laughing. “Lip knows this too, trust me.”

“So… you’re okay with it?” Mickey asks uncertain.

“Fuck no, I won’t ever want the guy in my house. But you,” she says, looking at him while she takes the jacket off. “You are welcome.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says quietly as he watches her stand up. She leans down, puts the jacket in his arms, squeezes his shoulder, and softly chuckles.

“Besides you’ve basically paid for half of our groceries this month. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you sneaking money in the squirrel fund. The bills always smell distinctly of cigarettes and gun oil,” she says amused and then tells him to get home safely before heading inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're feeling like it, leave love!


	7. Chapter 7

Mickey and Ian are getting ready for the first wave of tests, putting even more hours into studying than they had before. Mickey still doesn’t hold out much hope that he will pass them, looking at the Statistics homework he always gets returned with red annotations all over and the bi-weekly Spanish vocab test he keeps failing no matter how many times Ian goes over the words with him. But Ian keeps pushing him, somehow stays positive that Mickey can do it, so he just trusts him and tries to concentrate on the task at hand, making sure he studies as much as possible. Which is amid his own as well as Ian’s family drama really not that easy. As expected Terry had come to collect his returns on his drug dealings and when Mickey didn’t have anything to show for himself, nor could cough up any excuses as to why he is behind his dealings Terry lost his temper. He got shoved around a bit, but nothing too bad, merely left with a couple bruises on his arm and back that day. Given the tense relationship between his dad and Daryl, the agenda of strengthening the Milkovich turf Terry has been pushing so hard every day, he’d expected worse. When he finally decided to bring in the twins to take over for him at school, Principal Allen seemed to just magically materialize next to him on the school yard, having overheard the gist of Mickey’s introduction into dealing on school grounds. All of them were sent to detention for the entire week. And without Principal Allen having to actually spell it out, Mickey got the message that he can’t rope anybody else into taking over his illegal dealings, if he doesn’t want Principal Allen to spill the beans. If Terry finds out the turf has become useless, he’s pretty sure that he won’t get away with just a few minor bruises this time. Actually it’s a miracle word hasn’t gotten around to him yet. But Mickey is nowhere closer to a solution than he was in the beginning of this whole mess and so it’s just a matter of time until Terry finds out.

Amid going to school, detention, studying, playing guinea pig for Ian, and the Gallagher’s usual brand of chaos, it’s not like he has a lot of time to brainstorm. As if emphasizing Mickey’s thought the school’s intercom turns on and Ian is being called to the administration’s office. He shoots Ian a curious look, but Ian just shrugs, not knowing what this is about. The teacher allows him to leave and so Ian hobbles out, leaving Mickey alone for the remaining five minutes of Econ.

When the bell rings Mickey collects Ian’s stuff and grabs his backpack, heading outside. He pushes Ian’s book inside, meeting a bit of resistance at the bottom, can feel it bumping against something and hears something rattling. When he reaches inside to check what it is, his hand wraps around a familiar shaped plastic container. Pulling it out he finds a prescription bottle in Ian’s name for something called Lithium. Wondering what the hell that is, he takes a look at the second prescription bottle that’s in the bag, this one for Olanzapine. He is pretty sure these aren’t pain meds even if he isn’t as well versed as his brother at the subject. Ian never mentioned being sick, nor did Mickey ever see him taking these. The refill date is over a month back, about two weeks before Ian had his fall and broke his ankle, suggesting that these really aren’t pain meds. Seeing as he almost spends his entire days with Ian, it comes a bit of a surprise to Mickey that he never noticed that Ian was sick or was taking medication. More so, that Ian wouldn’t tell him, since he’s been pretty open with Mickey about his life and his family. Wondering what these meds are for, he tries to think of anything out of the ordinary in Ian’s behavior that he might have noticed in the past which could maybe offer some answers to his questions, but he can’t think of anything.

Arriving at the administration’s office he sees Ian talking on the phone at one of the administrator’s desk. He puts the bottles back inside, stuffs Ian’s book and notes in there too, and then zips the bag close as he makes his way inside. Hanging up and thanking the lady, Ian turns around and spots Mickey at the entrance.

“Bad news?” He asks, judging by Ian’s demeanor.

“Yeah…” Ian says angrily, pulling Mickey out of the office and out of anybody’s ear shot. “Lip has the phone today, so Fi had to call the school instead. Frank disappeared with Liam and now Liam’s become collateral for a debt he owes some street thugs.”

“You’re shitting me,” Mickey retorts in disbelief. Mickey can’t catch a break from these Gallaghers and their everyday drama it seems.

“Fiona, Lip, and Debs are making their way there now,” he says, balling his fists.

“What are we waiting for? We should go, meet up with them,” Mickey replies and has Ian turn around at that, scrutinizing him for a moment, his face unreadable.

“We can’t. You can’t skip school and Fiona asked me to make sure Carl meets his public defender today. They are supposed to go over his case file,” Ian explains and tightly clenches his jaw, disliking not being able to go get Liam back with the others.

“Tell me where they’re headed and I’ll make some calls,” Mickey says, already pulling his phone out.

“What are you gonna do?” Ian asks.

“Have Iggy and Colin meet your family to back them up. Chances are lower those fuckers will mess with your family, if they’re staring down the barrel of a couple of 870 Wingmasters,” he responds.

Ian pulls him to a stop, holding him by his arm.

“Careful about the fire power, Mickey. Liam can’t get in the cross hairs,” he says insistently.

“They’re just meant for intimidation. I’ll make sure my brothers will keep Liam and the others safe,” he reassures, he would never want anything to happen to the kid.

“Thanks,” Ian says earnestly, looking into his eyes.

“Sure,” Mickey replies slowly and then asks for the location to relay to his brothers.

He hands over the bag to Ian, making a mental note to ask him later about what he saw. For now Liam’s situation takes precedence.

Ian vibes with anxious energy throughout the rest of the school day and for a change it’s Mickey that actually takes notes for the both of them, pulls him to attention when a teacher eyes him unhappily, and writes down what they got to do for homework. When they’ve finally been dismissed from school, they hurriedly make their way to the Gallagher’s from where Ian calls Fiona with Mickey’s phone to ask for any updates. Even Carl has traded his gangster persona for a typical worried big brother while they wait for any news.

“They’ll be fine. I know that block. It’s just some small fish criminals running their business from there. Nobody there is looking to do major time. They won’t do anything to the kid,” Mickey says, placing his hand on Ian’s arm to stop him from further pacing around the living room.

Ian looks at him and then nods, exhaling some of his nervous energy.

“Here,” Carl says and holds out a beer for Ian, a second bottle in his other hand for himself. Ian eyes it disapprovingly. “By the way, Dr. Larkin called earlier. She wants you to call her back. Says you haven’t showed up to your last couple appointments.”

Mickey looks over curiously, sees Ian’s jaw set and his eyes harden. Surprisingly to Mickey, Carl shrinks back and backs off by shrugging, letting go off the subject.

“What’s that about?” Mickey asks, wondering if this has anything to do with the meds he found in Ian’s bag.

“Nothing,” Ian says dismissively, turning his back on Mickey.

Mickey glances over to Carl who quickly looks away.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asks.

“Everything is fine,” Ian replies extremely curt.

Mickey furrows his eyebrows as Ian is clearly hiding something from him. He’s about to mention he knows about the pills when a loud knock echoes through the unusual quiet Gallagher house and startles them to turn toward the front door.

A man looking for Carl introduces himself as his public defender through the closed door and Ian and Mickey jerk to attention. Ian rushes over to open the door and Mickey grabs the bottle of beer out of Carl’s hand, pushing him to straighten up. Carl eyes him annoyed, lingering on his beer now in Mickey’s hand, but then says hello to the man entering when Ian gives him a pointed look.

The entire meeting is an absolute disaster. Carl shows no interest in remotely following his public defender’s strategy for his court hearing, is utterly unhelpful in providing any information that could be helpful to lessen his sentencing, and even goes so far as to say that he wants to go to juvie, as there is no better place for him to get the _education_ he is looking for. And by that he means learning everything there is to know about Criminal 101, from making IDs to laundering money to amping up his street cred. As he puts it, he’s gonna _make juvie his bitch_. Ian buries his face in his hand upon hearing that. Even the veteran South Side public defender is absolutely stunned by Carl’s attitude.

“If he doesn’t give up his suppliers, he will do time. It’s his only option to get out of this. The prosecution is more interested in getting the real linchpins of the drug ring. Get him to give up his bosses and they’ll let him off,” the public defender says with emphasis.

“Never, Carl Gallagher ain’t no snitch,” Carl retorts, jutting his chin out.

As the public defender leaves, he parts by letting Ian and Mickey know that if Carl won’t turn his behavior around by the time of his hearing, he will get maximum sentence, that’s for sure.

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out,” Mickey says as he watches the guy leave.

He turns around to Ian who is hopelessly looking at Carl, sighing in defeat. Carl just raises his eyebrow, lips pursed into a smirk and then swaggers into the kitchen to get himself a sandwich.

“That’s one way to approach a court hearing,” Mickey mutters from his seat on the recliner. “On the plus side your room will be a lot less crowded now.”

“Might even have it to myself if Fi and the others can’t get Liam back. Where are they? Why haven’t they called yet?” Ian replies worriedly.

As if summoned the back door opens and Ian’s family comes in, Liam safely snuggled up in Fiona’s arms.

“Thank God!” Ian says as he jumps to his feet and hobbles over to meet his siblings halfway, taking a closer look at Liam to make sure he is unharmed. “You guys okay?”

“Yeah,” Lip replies tiredly.

“No thanks to Frank,” Fiona says angrily. “Fucking can’t believe he let them have Liam! When you think the guy can’t stoop any lower.”

She holds Liam closer in her arms, kisses him at his temple, visibly relieved to have him back safely, before she sets him down to get him out of his jacket.

“Speaking of, where is he?” Ian asks.

“Who knows, he didn’t bother to show up,” Debbie answers, sighing.

“Unbelievable…” Ian mutters angrily.

As messed up as Mickey’s father is, at least one can always count on Terry to show up when you need the guy to intimidate or to beat somebody up. Frank is a fucking weasel, only looking out for himself and is out the door at the first sign of trouble.

“Thanks for sending the cavalry, Mickey,” Fiona says, reaching out to squeeze his arm. Her eyes are soft and her smile genuine and Mickey doesn’t really know how to deal with being looked at this warmly by someone like Fiona. He nods, his way of saying no big deal, and averts his gaze from her as he scratches his temple distractedly.

“The guys were visibly unsettled when your brothers introduced themselves. How infamous are you?” Debbie asks curiously as she sits down on the sofa. Carl glances over interested as well.

“There are perks to having a family with a high comfort for committing homicide,” Mickey responds, shrugging.

“Yeah, real perks,” Lip comments snidely and turns around, making his way to the kitchen back door.

“Hey, where are you going-” Fiona tries to ask, but Lip has already shut the door close behind him.

She inhales a deep breath and glances to Mickey, mouthing _patience_. Mickey blows out a silent chuckle at that, garnering Ian’s attention, who stares between him and Fiona curiously. Fiona just smiles secretively and then heaves Liam back up into her arms on her way to the kitchen, making him giggle as she pulls funny faces at him.

“What was that about?” Ian asks, stepping closer to Mickey.

“Nothing,” Mickey says and then shoves him in direction to the stairs. “Let’s get to studying, Gallagher. We got an essay to write why the _Storming of the Bastille_ was the starting point to the French Revolution.”

“Actual words said by the notorious Mickey Milkovich,” Ian scoffs amused.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t go having a tragic accident on your way up,” Mickey huffs as he watches Ian hobble along the stairs.

After they went through their usual routine of doing homework and studying for the upcoming tests, Ian gives him this look that he’s really yearning for some exploring their bond time. Since Ian has been relinquishing his allotted time with Mickey for studying the past three days, Mickey can’t even muster up the slightest protest. He’s actually pretty impressed Ian made it this long, given how obsessed he can be about their bond. So he settles down next to the window, lights a cigarette, and holds out his arm to Ian, getting the show on the road.

“Teach me again how you get the bond to spread,” Ian says after retrieving his notes from under the bed.

“I don’t know, Ian. I told you I have no fucking clue how I do it,” Mickey replies for the tenth time.

“I still can’t believe you can do it and I can’t,” Ian mutters, taking his hand.

“Dyin’ with pride here,” Mickey deadpans.

“Rajan is fascinated by the way. He’s been trying it with Kala as well. He hasn’t come as far yet, but he says he can feel Kala echo him, like she reacts reflexively to his presence. Isn’t that cool?” Ian says, nodding toward his printed email correspondence lying between them.

“Real cool,” Mickey deadpans again, eyeing him utterly unimpressed.

“You’re a delight,” Ian responds, glaring at him.

“Excuse me for not being as excited about this as the teenage girl and the turban wackadoodle,” he says as he exhales the smoke from his nose.

“Emma? She hasn’t posted anything in a while,” Ian replies, referring to the Irish girl who is bonded to her best friend.

“Not who I meant.”

Ian flips him off for that.

“Maybe you’d be more interested in this, if you got involved a little more,” Ian points out annoyed.

“My arm goes tingly numb every night, because I let you abuse it like I’m some sort of breathing rag doll. That’s the extent of how involved I’m willing to get,” Mickey retorts.

“Stop whining and teach me already,” Ian says, purposefully pulling on his arm a littler harder for the rag doll comment he just made. Mickey glares at him, but gives in to Ian’s nagging eventually.

“Don’t know, man, just… do it,” Mickey replies, earning a very irritated look from Ian. “Look, I think you’re approaching this the wrong way. It’s… It’s not a thing you yank back and forth. It’s not really… a thing happening _to_ us… It’s much simpler… Like, how do you wiggle your friggin’ toes? You just do. It’s not something you need to push where you want it. It will… happen… simply because you want it to happen. Shit… I don’t know. Just… realize that it’s not some foreign thing, it’s…”

“What?” Ian asks, listening intently to Mickey’s explanation.

 _Us_ , Mickey thinks, but doesn’t really understand that himself. How do you explain the concept of _us_? Mickey blows out the smoke in frustration and then grabs Ian by his wrist. Ian reflexively lets the hold he had on the bond snap back, having it trickle softly into place where his and Mickey’s skin touch.

“Try again,” he says, paying close attention.

Ian nods and then focuses on the bond. It feels like he’s trying to move it into Mickey and into himself at the same time and Mickey shakes his head right away.

“Stop pushing, Gallagher. Just…” He says, sighing, wondering how to explain this. “Let go. Let it flow naturally.”

“I-I don’t understand how,” Ian replies, concentrating intently.

“It’s kinda like physics, the mixing of fluids. ‘Changing a non-uniform system into a uniform one’,” Mickey says, quoting his textbook from what he remembers, and Ian’s eyebrows rise into his hairline. “Shut up, don’t you fuckin’ look at me like that.”

“Did you really just make a physics reference?” Ian says grinning from ear to ear, absolutely stoked.

“Fuck off,” Mickey responds as he puts out his cigarette.

“You actually did!” Ian says, laughing.

“Shut up and concentrate. Do you want me to teach you or not?” Mickey retorts, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Okay, okay,” Ian says, trying to stop laughing. “I’m all ears, Mr. Milkovich. You were saying about the theories of physics?”

“Hi-larious, Gallagher. Go figure it out yourself, asshat,” Mickey replies and jerks his hand away.

“Come on, Mickey, as your tutor allow me to be a bit proud,” Ian responds, still chuckling into his hand.

“Fuck you is what you can be proud of,” Mickey grumbles.

Ian clears his throat, not laughing anymore, but unable to stop himself from grinning. He holds out his hand to Mickey.

“Can you give me some visualization?” Ian says, looking at him from under his lashes.

“If you laugh, I will cut your fucking tongue out, you hear me?” Mickey replies, eyeing him mistrustfully.

Still smiling, Ian actually presses his lips together and nods, already trying not to laugh by the looks of it. Mickey hates him. He grabs Ian’s wrist again.

“Imagine you’re…” Mickey starts and hesitates, glaring at Ian, distrustful of his reaction. “Orange juice-”

Ian’s body rocks with restrained laughter. He doubles over on the bed. When Mickey tries to wrench his hand free, Ian holds onto him tightly, pulling it under his body, pinning it between his chest and the mattress.

“I will murder you,” Mickey states through clenched teeth, trying to get his arm free.

“Before you do that, I still need to hear the rest of your analogy. I can’t die without knowing where you were going with this,” Ian says, looking up from where his head is resting on the bed, ringing for air. He has tears glimmering at the corner of his eyes.

“You are such a fucking asshole,” Mickey mutters, giving his hand another tug and giving up when Ian refuses to let go.

Ian looks up at him, still grinning uncontrolled, licking his lips once.

“If I’m orange juice, what are you?”

“Smooth, top-shelf single-malt whiskey, fuckhead,” Mickey replies.

“Sounds delicious,” Ian says amused, holding Mickey’s eye contact unbearably long. Mickey has to glance away. “So what do we do with orange juice and top-shelf whiskey?”

Ian slowly sits up, sliding his hand further down so that he is holding onto Mickey’s properly. He is brushing over his _U-UP_ knuckles and Mickey doesn’t know how to describe Ian’s expression as anything other than fond.

“Think of it as if it mixes where we touch. Now just mix the rest,” Mickey mutters, looking around the room, seeing nothing in particular.

“Just like that?” Ian asks.

“Just like that,” Mickey replies, shrugging.

“That would make us both whiskey and orange juice,” Ian states, staring into Mickey’s eyes.

“Way to ruin a good single-malt,” Mickey says quietly.

“You think?” Ian replies, green eyes still focused on him. “I’d order a drink of that.”

Mickey splutters, brushing a hand over his face.

“Yeah, that’s because you have poor-ass taste, Gallagher,” Mickey responds, after finally getting a grip on himself.

Ian just shrugs and smiles to himself as he focuses his concentration back to Mickey’s hand. He gets a better hang of it, Mickey can tell right away. Meaning the stupid analogy helped, though he isn’t sure it was worth the ridicule he had to suffer through coming from Ian.

While Ian plays around with the bond and Mickey has come to find he’s smoked through the last of their cigarettes, he is bored out of his mind. He has actually caught himself considering to study a bit more, but his brain is fried from the long day. Not to mention he’s absolutely fed up with Shakespeare by now. He can’t wait being done with that shit next week.

His eyes wander around the room aimlessly. They linger on Ian’s notes for a moment and spurred by boredom he takes them with his free hand and starts reading. Ian notices and looks at him, then averts his gaze with a small smile.

Most prints are talking about the blackout, about its theories on cause, effect, and meaning. They cover statements from the science community, various international press releases, all the way to individual blog postings. Not one speculation finding common consensus though. Not even weeks after the event had occurred. Besides the few social media posts Ian has found, no official account mentions anything remotely along the lines of what Ian and Mickey are experiencing. It is still absolutely inconceivable to Mickey how they seem to be one of only a handful of individuals in a population of multiple billion people around the world who were affected by the blackout. That estimation being liberal, since Mickey still hasn’t decided whether he trusts the witness testaments Ian has found. How can he when he is currently reading how the Irish teenage girl insists she has the special ability to always know where her best friend is? It’s called Find My Phone, Mickey thinks. He snorts derisively and flips the page away. No way does anyone actually have special abilities. This isn’t a comic book. The real world doesn’t just hand out superpowers. Besides he has disproved that theory anyway. Thankfully, Ian has given up on trying to locate each other through the help of their bond. Though he’s still pestering him every few days about sleeping together to test out the weird Indian guy’s claim of being able to sleep talk to his fiance. Mickey has stayed adamant that he will not be subjected to this particular brand of lunacy, much to Ian’s disappointment. Mickey hopes Ian will soon realize this is all nonsense and they can move on from the ridiculous notion that they have superpowers.

Ian glances to him every once in a while when Mickey lets out another snort. He ignores him as he reads over the correspondence between Ian and the Indian guy, Rajan. The guy prattles on and on how much he loves his fiance and how tragic her accident had been. How he finally has a way to connect with his beautiful fiance ever since the blackout. How their _soul bond_ allows him to communicate with her on _a plane transcending the_ _mundane world_ in which they live. Mickey’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline reading over Rajan’s absurd narrative. Almost worse to read are Ian’s responses. The way he practically gushes over the guy’s love declarations and his writing about how he has found spiritual guidance from the Gods in which he heavily romanticizes the bond and what he thinks it means.

_I wish I could see what you see, Rajan. The dreams in which you get to meet Kala, they seem magical! What does it feel like? Do you remember everything when you wake up? How long do you usually stay connected? I wish I could find all this out myself, but Mickey doesn’t want to test it out. He doesn’t believe in any of this. I think he wonders sometimes why it happened to be the two of us. Do you think proximity is a factor in this? You knew Kala before the blackout, Emma was best friends with Katie since they met in the sandbox, Mickey and I grew up in the same neighborhood. Do you think it was just a matter of the immediate radius we happened to be in the night of the blackout? And the question that I ask myself everyday: Why?_

_Ian, my friend, why do you need answers? Why do you need a reason to exist the way you do? Can’t you just thank your Gods for seeing to give you a partner that is made_ _just_ _for you?_ _Ask yourself what if the world will never know what happened? What if we never find out what the Dark Day did? What if we’re never supposed to know?_ _Maybe you will never have the answers._ _M_ _aybe your Mickey will never believe._ _D_ _oes it make what you have any less special? D_ _on’t you find the words we try to describe this wonderful thing we have simply inadequate?_ _Does it not feel like you have everything you will ever need when you and_ _your_ _Mickey touch?_ _Why do you seek an explanation for something that doesn’t need to be explained? Isn’t_ _it_ _enough to know that you were chosen? Isn’t it enough that you have received a gift nobody else has? Isn’t it enough to have your Mickey?_ _I do not ask why. Kala has always been and will always be everything I need._ _From the moment I met her_ _and even during the darkest times we had to face she has always completed me._ _She has been my soulmate long before the blackout._ _Only now I get to speak to her again in my dreams! I get to spend my time again with the person I hold dearest in the world. I will not ask for more. I cannot possibly ask for more! She is everything I need._

“Do you really believe in this soulmate theory?” Mickey asks incredulously, his eyes wandering over the message he just read.

“What if I do?” Ian answers quietly and shrugs.

“ _This_ is insane, Ian,” he says, holding up the pages.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe we could be soulmates?” Ian asks, looking at him earnestly, brows furrowed.

“There is no such thing as soulmates!” Mickey says.

“There is no such thing as _this_ ,” Ian retorts, letting their bond hum to the intensity of his words. “There _was_ no such thing as this before. Our world has changed. At least yours and mine has, Mickey.”

“Doesn’t mean we are destined soulmates or some crap like that,” Mickey replies, desperately yearning for another smoke.

“Would it be that bad having me as your soulmate?” Ian asks, not meeting Mickey’s eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Ian, we’re not girlfriend and boyfriend here. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey says.

“I’m sick of pretending this isn’t actually happening to us. Stop denying what we have isn’t real!” Ian demands and the bond courses wildly through their bodies in direct response to his words.

“What are you talking about? What the fuck do you think we’ve been doing all this time? You think I like spending my nights being fucking harassed by you?” Mickey barks back, not understanding what has Ian ticked off so suddenly.

“This is what I’m talking about! You don’t actually mean that. Why are you trying so hard to be something you’re not?” Ian says, looking at him in frustration. His hand squeezes Mickey’s so tightly, it’s crushing his fingers.

“Fuck off, Gallagher! Can’t fucking believe you are coming down on me despite all the shit I’ve put up with,” Mickey replies, trying to pull his hand free, but Ian is holding tight, not letting go. He lets their bond connect further and further, or perhaps the bond is simply reacting to Ian’s inner emotional turmoil, Mickey muses.

“Naming what this is does not suddenly make it something else. We’ve been living with this for the last couple months, naming it now doesn’t change anything. Why is it so hard for you to acknowledge we’re soulmates? Deep down you know this is true. Can’t you fucking feel it?” Ian says upset. The bond rushes through every cranny of their bodies, connecting them completely. It’s that same feeling Mickey had managed to conjure that day in this same room for the very first time. Actively connecting, merging. _Changing a non-uniform system into a uniform one._ Reaching _point zero._

“I don’t believe in shit like that, Ian,” Mickey says quietly, averting his eyes. “You gotta let go of that nonsense. The universe, or fate, or whatever doesn’t dictate our lives. It doesn’t fucking exist. You really think if it did, it would give a fucking crap about two South Side lowlifes like us? Nothing good ever happens around here. I am fucked for life. No soulmate bullshit would ever find its way to me. So, stop. I can’t fucking deal with this.”

The bond has settled warm and pleasant within them. Mickey isn’t angry. He’s used to Ian’s intrusiveness. But he’s not happy having to disappoint time and time again when the other knows he can’t give more than he has to offer. This is it. Mickey can’t be open, friendly, or caring. He can’t talk about his feelings, his hopes, or his pain. He’s already showed Ian more than he has ever showed any other person.

“I told you, naming it now doesn’t change what this is,” Ian says, closing his eyes, feeling and letting the bond hum between them. “You can trust me.”

Mickey slowly glances up to Ian who opens his eyes, earnestly looking into Mickey’s. And all Mickey can think of are the meds sitting heavily in Ian’s bag, Ian’s turned back from this afternoon, hushed voices and drifting eyes. It belies the feeling currently humming on a low frequency through his body. The unity it projects has cracks here and there if looked at more closely. As it boils down to it, he doesn’t trust Ian, not with this.

“We barely know each other, Ian,” he says and sees the confusion in Ian’s eyes when he pulls his hand away, letting the bond between them disconnect abruptly.

LT ->\------- ♡ -------<\- LT

Mickey hasn’t taken any tests in almost a year. There was a reason why he didn’t graduate. He never gave a crap about them, he never liked them, and he damn well never saw any point in them. Looking at the last essay question of his History test, he silently mourns the old status quo of not giving a shit about school, not having to worry about inane exam questions, and not having to break his head over how the American Revolutionary War played a factor in sparking the French Revolution. He tries to remember if there was anything Ian and he read and studied that would help him answer the question, distractedly biting at his lower lip. He guesses there are a couple points he could write down, not exactly sure it’s what the teacher is expecting, but he only has seven minutes left, so he better just make the best of it and write something down. Hopefully, he’ll get a few points even if the answer isn’t perfect.

When he hands over his papers, he sighs, longing for the exam period to be finally over tomorrow. He’s already taken his tests in all subjects except for Spanish, which is due this afternoon, and English, which is scheduled for first period tomorrow. Ian and he have been actually busting their asses off, cramming into the middle of the night and even using any free periods to get some extra studying in before heading to their next class. Surprisingly, Ian has even backed off on a few occasions when it came to exploring their bond, using the time to tutor Mickey instead. He’s still stealing touches here and there from Mickey when he’s sure nobody is looking, but Mickey lets it slide. He’s learned to pick his battles with Ian.

“How did it go?” Ian asks, standing at the door, having waited for Mickey.

Mickey shrugs, not really sure he’s got a chance of passing.

“I think I misspelled _Shawn-Jack Rassou_ ,” Mickey says, scratching his eyebrow.

“You mean _Jean-Jacques Rousseau_?” Ian asks softly, making Mickey groan in frustration.

“Whatever, we knew this wasn’t gonna work out,” Mickey grumbles, marching in direction of the cafeteria.

“Don’t give up, we don’t even have the results yet,” Ian responds and bumps his shoulder against Mickey’s.

“Yeah, not gonna hold my breath,” Mickey replies and gets in line for the tacos.

Ian reaches for his wallet, checking the inside, and then quickly stashes it back inside his back pocket. He looks up to Mickey, but Mickey has already turned around, pretending he hadn’t seen him fiddling around inside his wallet.

“Lunch on the roof, right? I’ll go ahead, meet you there,” he says, avoiding eye contact.

“What about food? You’re not gonna get anything?” Mickey asks, moving up in the queue.

“Not hungry. See you in a bit?” Ian replies, putting on, what Mickey knows is, a fake smile. And even though it’s only been directed at him a handful of times, Mickey absolutely hates it.

“Sure,” Mickey says, eyeing him as he makes his way through the busy cafeteria toward the exit.

As close as they’ve become there are still moments where Mickey knows Ian is hiding stuff from him. Ian telling him to trust him a few days back knowing that he’s been hiding something from him had been a stark reminder of that. Since Mickey isn’t a particularly sensitive and socially tactful person, he gets why people aren’t actively seeking him out to confide in him, but he did think that Ian and he had become somewhat friends. Even if it is based on a stupid study program and, he supposes, the whole potentially being soulmates thing. While he doesn’t expect Ian to share everything with him, he just kinda thought he would, since that’s what he usually does. Even though he had told Ian they barely knew each other, that isn’t actually true. They’ve only started hanging out recently, but Ian has been pretty open about almost everything with him. He usually can’t get the guy to shut up. He just keeps talking about every innocuous thing that happened to him during the day. Mickey knows almost everything there is to know about the guy. From his first bad sunburn to his regular jogging route to his favorite movie, all the way to his ridiculous upbringing where he was used in Frank’s scams to extort money from unsuspecting drivers who’d _accidentally_ bump into young Ian, how he and Lip would sneak into restaurants and raid their freezers, or how he used to wear Fiona’s hand-me-down pink beanie and mittens during the winter of ‘06 when they couldn’t afford to buy anything else during his first major growth spurt. Mickey knows all that crap. Kinda liked hearing him talk about all that crap. So it bothers him for reasons he himself doesn’t even know that Ian seems to actually hide stuff from him. Real stuff. For the first time in a very long time he’s actually curious about somebody, wants to get to know the guy, wants to be a person in who people confide. As stupid as it all feels to him he actually doesn’t want to be kept out of parts of Ian’s life. Mickey doesn’t really understand why he feels the way he does. None of it makes sense to him.

Heaving himself up on the roof, he sees Ian shielding himself with his palm from the last strong sun rays Chicago gets to have this year as he watches the empty baseball field in front of him. The sunlight lets his hair look like fire, blazing in the cold late autumn breeze, a stark contrast to the clear blue sky behind him. Mickey slows down, approaches quietly as he watches Ian take his hand down and close his eyes, enjoying the light warmth of the sun caressing his face. Sees the corner of his lips rise into a soft smile. Mickey has to look away, lets his gaze wander left and right, and clears his throat as he makes his way over the last few feet to Ian sitting on the ledge. Ian opens his eyes to Mickey rustling a paper bag in front of his face and looks at it curiously before meeting Mickey’s eyes questioningly.

“Lunch lady gave me extra,” Mickey says and lets it fall into Ian’s lap when the latter doesn’t take it.

“Don’t need your charity,” Ian replies terse, looking away.

“Who the fuck said anything about charity?” Mickey retorts and plops down next to him with his own paper bag. Ian is still looking angrily up ahead, not meeting Mickey’s eyes. “She really did give me extra.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” Ian scoffs.

“Believe it or not, I do have a way with women,” Mickey replies and tears into his taco.

“Sure,” Ian snorts and Mickey sees he’s about to shove the paper bag away.

“Will you just take the damn taco, Ian? Jesus Christ,” he says, shaking his head. Mickey can’t remember when was the last time he refused free food. Ian can be so prideful at times.

“I have money, Mickey,” Ian responds, jaw set.

“I know,” Mickey replies through a mouthful of taco.

“I just lent Debbie cash this morning. She needed it,” Ian continues testily.

“I see,” Mickey says, barely understandable amid his chewing.

“We’re not that poor I can’t get my own lunch, okay?”

“Okay.”

Ian looks at him aggravated while Mickey just slurps on his coke. Mickey turns around to meet his glare and raises his eyebrows questioningly, holding his coke out, pretending to wonder if Ian wants some. Ian glares at him for another fifteen seconds and then sighs irritably, grabbing the paper bag and unwrapping the taco.

“Lunch tomorrow is on me,” Ian says and Mickey would describe it as petulant, if he weren’t afraid to get pummeled by the guy for doing so.

“That would be appreciated,” Mickey responds instead. “Unlike you I have a money income problem.”

Ian looks at him, frowning as he takes his first bite of his taco.

“What happened?”

“What do you mean what happened? I live on the South Side and nobody in my family has a legit job,” Mickey says, making this face as if that had been a stupid question.

“Yeah, but you have other business, don’t you?” Ian points out while chewing and is being a lot more graceful than Mickey doing so.

“I used to push drugs from here, but ever since Principal Allen has decided to breathe down my neck, I can’t move my product,” Mickey grumbles frustrated.

“You can’t do it outside?” Ian asks, seemingly genuinely interested.

“Competition is tough,” Mickey responds, sighing. “Don’t really have the time either. You know, there’s this guy who uses me as his lab subject every day. By the time I make it home it’s midnight usually. Not exactly ideal business hours.”

“If your intention is to make me feel bad, you’re gonna be highly disappointed,” Ian says and actually snatches Mickey’s coke from him.

“Trust me, not surprised,” Mickey snorts and hides his amused smile inside his taco.

“What about Terry? Another dad who doesn’t believe in putting his kids through school?” Ian asks as he empties the can.

Mickey snorts once more, this time at the thought of Terry giving a shit about his education.

“In our family you gotta earn your keep. I don’t think I’ve gotten so much as a free penny from him since I was nine,” Mickey explains, swallowing the last of his taco.

“Drug runs?” Ian asks, nodding to his hand with the big scar from the shootout.

“Drug runs, weapon trades, or plain ol’ stealing,” Mickey replies.

“You like doing that? I mean, when you’re not getting shot at,” Ian says, still slowly eating away at his lunch.

Mickey thinks about the question for a moment and then turns his attention back to Ian, surprisingly not reading any judgment from his face.

“Yeah,” he says and Ian nods his head, indicating he’s mulling Mickey’s answer over. “Besides, ‘s all I’ve ever known. ‘S all that I’m good at.”

“Ever thought about getting a real job? Part-time, I mean,” Ian asks.

“Hell no, not if it isn’t parole stipulated,” Mickey answers, kneading the trash into a ball and throwing it as far away as he can.

“Then what are you gonna do? You can’t deal on school grounds, you got no job… What’s your plan?” He says, squinting a little from the sun shining in his face when he turns around to look properly at Mickey.

If Mickey knew the answer to that, it’d be one damn fucking problem less on his shitlist.

“I still have some savings,” Mickey replies, biting on his lip, not liking how he’ll soon have to tap into his emergency get-away cash, if he can’t find a solution. And that is not even his worst problem. “I’m more concerned about Terry finding out I’m not actually dealing anymore.”

“He doesn’t know?” He asks, taking another small bite.

“He thinks I’m dragging my feet. He doesn’t know the fucking mess I’m actually in,” he says, distractedly surveying the older and newer stains on his jeans. He never really talks about personal shit with anyone. Mickey is surprised he keeps talking about his life. He thinks he should brush Ian off, but somehow it doesn’t come.

“What happens when he finds out?” He asks, glancing over to him and eyeing him curiously.

Mickey meets his eyes for a moment and then looks down where his hands are fiddling with the thinner patch of denim which Mickey knows will soon turn into yet another hole.

“If… If he figures out I’m losing the family business on school grounds… he might ask questions that I can’t have him asking…”

He tries to be as forthcoming as he can, which is a first, but given his relationship with Ian, not a surprise. He’s had many firsts with Ian by now. Glancing hesitantly to Ian, he doesn’t know how to tell him he can’t say more. That he feels like he’s suffocating and even _wants_ to get it all out. That he believes he could finally breathe, if he just told Ian. The same feeling he had the day Terry was released from prison and he sat anxiously here, exactly where he is sitting now. Where it felt like he was drowning, treading water, but nobody was seeing him. Looking at Ian now, he wishes he could see him. All of him. For just a moment, so he could finally hold on to something. To get his head above water and come up for air. The words die long before he even gets his mouth to open and so he shuts it close again, turns away from Ian, and rips into his jeans where he was scratching before with his index finger.

“Mickey…” He hears him say softly, but Mickey doesn’t look and Ian doesn’t say more.

They sit in silence, listening to the usual background noise of students meandering around the school yard during lunch break. Neither looking at the other. They have a free period after in which they had intended to get some last minute studying in for their Spanish test this afternoon, but it’s all forgotten when the bell rings, introducing next period.

Mickey doesn’t want to be in this uncomfortable funk anymore, wants to go back to their usual bickering and just be. It’s one of the reasons he likes spending time with Ian. The refuge he offers unknowingly. The place where Mickey can go and forget about everything else. He doesn’t need Ian to know everything about him. He just needs him to be there when everything about him is too much of a burden to keep thinking about. And, besides, he knows Ian has his own secrets he’s hiding from him. Maybe he’d feel differently about opening up to Ian, if he knew Ian was honest with him as well. That Ian too, would share what’s going on with him. Mickey’s place at Ian’s side feels unsteady at times. He feels reminded every time Ian obviously hides something from him that while he has insinuated himself into the Gallagher family life, he’s an outsider. He just happens to be there for the moment and their time together has an expiration date. They have until graduation. After that there is no reason to see each other anymore. The study program will be over, along Ian’s obligation to spend time with him, and Ian himself will go off to West Point. The extent of how much Ian has already taken over most of his days, the way he crashed into his life and completely turned everything upside down, it’s already too much of a mess. Mickey has no idea how he’ll be able to return to his old life before he met Ian. It might be for the best, if he doesn’t get involved more than he has to with the guy. Maybe it’s for the best, if they don’t reveal the parts of themselves that can never be forgotten again. After everything he’s dealt and is still dealing with that’s something from which Mickey doesn’t know how he can come back. It’s better if some things remain obscure. For both of their sake.

Ian seems to be deep inside his own headspace, the remains of his taco forgotten in his hand. Mickey is about to suggest they make their way inside and get some last attempts at studying in when Ian looks at him, seemingly silently debating something in his head. He takes a bite, then stares at his lunch when he starts to talk.

“I also have a slight money income problem,” he admits. Mickey raises his eyebrow curiously. “Linda, Kash’s wife, she let me go. I have no clue why. When I asked to talk to Kash she told me he left them. Just up and vanished recently, leaving her and the kids behind. After that she decided to sell the store and move closer to her parents.”

“Really…” Mickey asks quietly, averting his eyes as he remembers the surveillance footage Terry had showed him.

“I don’t get what happened. He didn’t say anything, not even a good-bye. He just left m-,” Ian cuts himself off, shaking his head irritably as he stares ahead at the baseball field. “He just left.”

“You guys were close or something?” Mickey asks, not really understanding why Ian is so frustrated about this.

Ian averts Mickey’s eyes and just shakes his head.

“I was working there all the time. I just… got to know the guy. Thought he’d at least tell me, if he planned to leave,” Ian says shrugging, putting the last of his unfinished taco back in the paper bag.

“Ian-” Mickey starts saying.

“I need to work and contribute to the family fund. I need to buy… stuff,” he says upon a frustrated exhale. “Not only can’t I work at the store anymore, a place I really liked working at, I can’t seem to find another job. Either the timings suck or they reject me because I’m still underage.”

“You’re looking for a job?” Mickey asks, surprised he hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah,” he huffs irritated. “You’ve been throwing more money in the squirrel fund the past month than I. It’s not right.”

Mickey wasn’t aware Ian has realized he’s been doing that too. He thought it was just Fiona.

“I also eat a lot more than your skinny ass,” Mickey tries for lighthearted, but it falls short, seeing how Ian looks at him irritably. “Hey, okay, so what? You’re busy with your last year of high school. You just lost your job. Your family understands that. Fiona and Lip seem to have things under control. Don’t start beating yourself up about shit like that.”

“You don’t understand- It’s not that simple…” Ian responds, his jaw set in frustration.

“Tell me,” Mickey breathes out without realizing it. Despite that he thinks it might be better for them to keep a modicum of distance between them, if Ian were to just say it, he feels like maybe it would change everything.

With bated breath he looks at Ian.

“It’s nothing,” Ian shakes his head, looks up to Mickey after a beat and smiles that hateful smile. “Forget what I said.”

Mickey casts his eyes down to his ripped jeans. He bites the corner of his lip until he draws blood.

“Kash left because Terry beat the shit out of him and threatened to kill him.”

It’s not like he didn’t have his own share of secrets. He feels foolish for expecting anything else from Ian. He might as well come clean now, Mickey thinks.

“What?” Ian asks shocked, staring at Mickey.

“Yeah, he and Terry got into it. Terry left him with a warning. Guess the guy couldn’t take the heat and split,” Mickey says, turning around on the ledge to get up.

“What the fuck do you mean by this?” Ian asks as he follows Mickey and grabs him by his arm. “What happened?”

“I told you,” Mickey retorts, meeting Ian’s eyes head on.

“Why? Why did Terry hurt Kash?” Ian demands visibly upset.

“Well, there’s three kinds of people my dad absolutely hates: cops, basically everyone who isn’t white, and gays. Your former boss was two for three. Got caught with his pants down and naked ass out at the wrong fucking time,” Mickey replies calmly, but then stares down where Ian is still holding onto his arm, the squeeze getting uncomfortably tight, and then raises his eyebrow expectantly for Ian to let go.

“You knew? All this time?” Ian asks outraged.

“Yeah, I knew the night it happened. I was afraid you’d drop me from the program, if I told you,” he says, suddenly feeling so absolutely bone-tired. Maintaining all these carefully constructed webs of lies and secrets, it’s just not something he wants to do any longer. He’s tired. “Sorry I didn’t tell you, I guess. Do whatever you want.”

Tugging his arm free and averting his gaze, he walks away.

“Mickey! What’s going on with you?” Ian asks at a loss as he grabs for his arm again. His expression is open and helpless, scrutinizing Mickey as if desperately trying to figure out what Mickey is thinking. Mickey is grateful his jacket sleeve is between his wrist and Ian’s fingers, unable to handle having their bond thrown into the mix on top of all this.

“Just forget about it. We don’t owe each other shit,” he says, looking everywhere but at Ian.

“Why are _you_ upset? You are the one who lied to me,” Ian points out, not understanding what’s going on.

“And you haven’t?” Mickey says as he snaps his head up to meet Ian’s eyes.

“What? What are you talking about?” Ian asks confused.

Mickey twists his arm free once more and takes a step back.

“Tell me straight, you haven’t been lying to me?” He asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“No!” Ian responds breathlessly and his voice sounds so thin, even Ian has to grimace slightly at how obviously he just lied. “Fuck, I mean-”

“What do you need the money for?” Mickey asks outright.

“That has nothing to do with this-” Ian says.

“You know exactly what I mean, Gallagher. I see you sneaking around, whispering with your family about stuff I’m not supposed to hear. What is it?”

“Mickey…” Ian says, averting his gaze uncomfortably.

“Anything to do with the pills you take?” Mickey replies and judging by the shocked look on Ian’s face, Mickey has hit jackpot.

“How do you know- Have you been going through my things?” Ian says, angrily stepping forward.

“I saw them when I packed your stuff. What- What’s going on? Are you sick?” Mickey asks, his damn voice breaking toward the end. He doesn’t understand how the thought hits so hard.

“No! Just back off, okay?” Ian retorts upset, turning away.

“Why can’t you tell me?” Mickey asks, staring at Ian who can’t even look at him. And he just wants to know why.

“That coming from you? You lie everyday why the fuck you are even doing all this,” Ian spits out, rounding on Mickey angrily.

“I never fucking lied to you!” Mickey shouts back, taking a step forward and meeting Ian’s challenging posture. “I told you from the beginning I _can’t_ tell you. I asked you in or out and you said in! I was honest- I was fucking honest with you all this time about how I can’t tell you. Don’t fucking… Why did you hide this from me?”

“Because it’s not any of your fucking business!” Ian exclaims reflexively, by the looks of it not meaning to be so blunt about it. He opens his mouth, trying to back-paddle, but Mickey just exhales and shakes his head in frustration. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. They really don’t owe each other shit. He’s never had anybody give a fuck about him. He doesn’t know why he expected anything else.

“Forget it, Ian. You don’t have to tell me shit. But don’t expect anything more from me, okay?”

The unbidden memories of the past months come flooding in and he remembers how he let Ian in, let him come close. For fuck’s sake he even let him touch him, he thinks bitterly. He’s never allowed anybody to come that close to him.

“Mickey…” Ian says conflicted, stepping forward, but Mickey immediately moves out of reach.

“I don’t need to know. We’re in this until graduation and then it’s over. That’s it. Just get me to graduation, okay? I don’t need anything else from you, Gallagher,” he says.

LT ->\------- ♡ -------<\- LT

After the tests are finally over, Mickey is happy to just put that all behind him. If it were up to him, he’d be fine not receiving the results until the end of the year. Contrary to Ian’s optimism Mickey is certain he’d failed most of his subjects. Ian keeps saying he’s too negative and has been overly cheerful, trying to get Mickey in a better mood. Though it’s clear that has more to do with their little blow-out on the roof. Ever since Ian has tried several times to broach the subject, but Mickey has cut him off each and every time. He’s been going over to the Gallagher’s like usual, since, test wave recently over or not, they still had homework to do, but he hasn’t been staying longer than what their study sessions necessarily required. Ian keeps shooting him these sad and frustrated looks, keeps calling his name with that soft voice of his, but Mickey never stays. It’s not like Mickey is icing the guy. They still hang out at school. They still talk and eat together. They still suffer through their classes and detention together. But on any other level Mickey just doesn’t want to engage.

The test results are trickling in quicker than Mickey had thought. Unlike Ian who has been on the edge of his seat for Mickey’s results, Mickey was just happy the test wave was finally over and he could get some reprieve before having to worry about them. But one test result after the other keeps coming back and Mickey has to face the music a lot sooner than he’d liked. When the first graded test comes back Ian practically yanks the papers out of Mickey’s hands. Mickey sighs as he sees Ian’s face fall.

“Told you,” he simply says.

“We knew Statistics was your weakest subject,” Ian replies, looking his answers over. “You can still balance your average out, if…”

“If what? I get an A somewhere?” Mickey snorts.

“Not necessarily. A B would be enough for now too,” Ian replies and for some reason stashes the test in his own bag instead of returning it to Mickey.

Things do get better from there. Mickey is surprised to pass Econ, Bio, and Spanish, if barely with a D. He gets a C- in Calculus, a C in Physics, and Ian almost loses his shit when Mrs. Lang returns Mickey’s History test with a C+.

“Oh my God, Mickey, look at this, she gave you extra credit for your last answer!” He says, absolutely beaming from ear to ear. With rapt attention he reads through his short essay, making Mickey a bit self-conscious. He doesn’t really get why Ian is more excited about his test results than his own. “That last bit, we never covered that in class. Where did you learn that?”

Mickey glances over to the section Ian is pointing at and then scratches his temple with his thumb.

“Something I remembered Principal Allen say once,” he says, shrugging.

Ian grins, bumping his shoulder happily while they walk down the hall and Mickey can’t help but snort out a laugh.

“What’d you get?” Mickey asks. Ian had been so absorbed with Mickey’s test results, that Mickey hadn’t really had the chance to ask Ian about his. Not just History, but any other subject so far.

“C,” Ian says, clearing his throat and handing the test back to Mickey.

“What?” Mickey asks bewildered, coming to an abrupt stop. “How the fuck did you get a lower score than me?”

“I blanked, ran out of time at the end and didn’t even start on the last question,” Ian explains quietly, hesitantly looking over at Mickey.

“Well, happens to the best I’ve heard,” Mickey mutters and raises his arm, hesitantly clapping Ian’s back. It’s the first time since that day on the roof that Mickey has initiated any physical contact and Ian looks at him surprised and a little bit hopeful. He pulls his hand back and walks ahead to the cafeteria.

The day he gets his English test results is the day of Carl’s hearing. Ian has been on edge the entire day and judging by the dark circles under his eyes he must not have slept much either. How the Gallaghers can get so invested in each other’s lives is still very odd to Mickey. Ian exhales nervously when Mrs. Strahovsky hands out their graded tests. Since she’s also their homeroom teacher, she’s distributing their preliminary grades overview alongside the tests. If Mickey can avoid getting a second F, he’ll be safe for now. He still needs to find a way to get to a higher average, but as long as he can get a D for now, he’ll worry about that later. When Mrs. Strahovsky comes to a stop in front of him, she gives him a small smile before handing him his grades. Ian pounces on it before Mickey has even a chance to look at it. Mrs. Strahovsky chuckles as he sees him rolling his eyes and then moves on to another student.

Going by the expression on Ian’s face he reckons it’s bad news. Of course he’d fail Shakespeare. Why couldn’t that bastard have written his shit in normal English, Mickey thinks resentfully.

“Come on, Gallagher, spit it out already,” Mickey says annoyed.

Ian looks at him with wide eyes and then slowly turns his test around for him to see. And there, below his last answer, Mickey reads circled and in red ink: B-.

“Dude, you got a B…” Ian states speechlessly.

“What the actual fuck…” Mickey mutters.

“You got a B!” Ian says again, this time with more vigor. “You got a fucking B, Mickey!”

“Okay, calm your tits,” Mickey replies, glancing uncomfortably at the other classmates looking at them.

Ian shakes his head and grins so hard, Mickey thinks his face must break any second. Mickey snorts a laugh and then grabs the test out of Ian’s hands. He looks over his preliminary grades overview and can’t believe he’s only got one failing grade. His scores average is not nearly what he needs to graduate, but it’s so much better than Mickey would have ever thought possible. Ian kicks his foot lightly under the desk and when Mickey looks over he sees Ian still grinning absolutely exuberantly.

By the time Mrs. Strahovsky has returned all graded tests, Ian still hadn’t gotten his. She tells him to see him after class and then proceeds by introducing their next literature.

“What’d she want from you?” Mickey asks when Ian gets into the car after class. He’s borrowed Iggy’s car for today and is grateful that he did when he drives through the deep snow last night’s blizzard had brought. He blasts the heater to the highest setting and rubs his hands together before he places them back on the steering wheel.

Mickey turns around to Ian when the latter doesn’t answer him. Ian is staring down at his lap, his expression pensive.

“Mickey,” he says eventually. “I need to tell you something.”

Ian eyes him nervously, in turn putting Mickey on edge.

“What is it?” Mickey asks, focusing on the snowy road.

“About-” Ian begins when his phone buzzes loudly in his pants. He exhales frustrated and pulls it out to check on it. “It’s Fiona…”

Torn, he looks at him apologetically and answers the call. By the one-sided conversation Mickey guesses the connection is so bad that Ian is unable to understand anything. He hangs up only to try and call her back, but it’s not getting through.

“Something happened?” Mickey asks and curses when the car skids a little on the icy ground when he takes a turn.

“I don’t know. She seemed upset, but I didn’t understand a single word,” Ian replies, worriedly trying to call her back again without any luck.

“Think it has anything to do with Carl’s hearing?” Mickey asks.

“It’s scheduled for late this afternoon. We were gonna head out together soon,” Ian says, shaking his head.

“We’re almost at your place. You’ll know soon enough,” Mickey replies matter-of-factly and ignores the unhappy expression on Ian’s face when he looks at him.

“You’re not coming in today?”

“I have somewhere I need to be,” Mickey simply responds. Mandy is being released today. He had promised her to pick her up and she had threatened him in no uncertain terms, if he didn’t come through, she’d try her new shivving technique out on him.

“We still have homework,” Ian tries too eagerly. “You know how Mrs. Clarkson gets when we don’t do the exercises.”

Exhaling annoyed through his nose, he comes to a halt in front of the Gallagher house. Ian looks at him anxiously and Mickey lets his gaze wander outside the windows, sighing one more time.

“Let’s get this shit over with then.”

He doesn’t look at Ian as he gets out of the car and makes his way through the eight-inch high snow to the Gallagher’s.

“Have you heard from Fiona?” Ian asks Debbie when he enters behind Mickey.

“No and I can’t reach her. Last I heard she was out to get Carl a proper haircut for today. They should have been back by now,” Debbie says from the couch where she is flipping through a magazine.

“Lip?” He asks.

“No clue,” she says with a small sigh.

Ian makes this complicated face and exhales.

“If we could move this along, Gallagher. I have to get going soon,” Mickey states. While he isn’t unsympathetic to Ian’s situation, he doesn’t have time today for the usual Gallagher drama.

“Yeah, sorry,” Ian replies, nodding as he slips the backpack from his shoulder. He starts unzipping it while he hobbles toward the kitchen. “Let’s get started.”

Mickey follows him, sees the wet trail of dirty snow water they leave behind them, and cringes at the thought of Fiona chewing them out for it when she inevitability comes home to see the mess they’ve made. He grimaces when he hears Ian’s foot squelch in the brace with every step. The moment Ian steps on the kitchen linoleum he slips on his wet brace and comes tumbling down. Mickey reflexively reaches for him, but short of bracing his fall, he can’t stop them both from landing on their asses.

“Fucking hell, Gallagher…” Mickey groans as he gets the air knocked out of his lungs when Ian falls backward landing on his chest.

“Fuck!” Ian cries out, reaching for his ankle. He hisses in pain, by the looks of it breathing through it and unable to concentrate on anything else, including getting the fuck off Mickey. Mickey really needs to start learning how to catch Ian properly. This is getting ridiculous, he thinks.

“How bad?” Mickey asks, gently crawling out from underneath him. Debbie has come rushing to the kitchen and is currently helping him up.

“You two okay?” She asks.

“I-It’s fine…” Ian breathes out, eyes squeezed shut.

“Help me get him up,” Mickey says to Debbie and they both take an arm, heaving him upwards. They’re as careful as they can about not stepping on the books and papers that are lying strewn across the kitchen floor while they navigate Ian to one of the kitchen chairs. “Lemme see.”

He takes another chair, sits down on it, and pulls Ian’s foot gingerly on his lap.

“I think it’s just sprained,” Ian replies through clenched teeth.

“You mean you only sprained a severely broken ankle?” Mickey retorts facetiously.

“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” Debbie says and heads upstairs.

“You okay removing this?” Mickey asks, pointing to the brace. He wants to get a better look at the damage. Ian nods and then helps him get it off.

“It’s fine. Don’t think I did any lasting damage. It’s just sore,” Ian states, sighing as he examines his own ankle.

“Here,” Debbie says when she’s back, handing the first-aid kit over along a towel and some dry socks, much to Ian’s appreciation.

Under Ian’s instructions he sprays some cooling-spray on the ankle and then tapes it, ignoring how the bond starts humming under his ministrations. Ian steals a few glances here and there, but with Debbie close by he doesn’t say anything. Mickey can feel him tentatively reaching out to him through the bond instead.

“That should do it,” Mickey says, letting go off Ian the moment he’s done.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ian mutters quietly, eyes downcast.

“You sure you don’t need a hospital?” Debbie asks as she slowly sets Ian’s school things on the kitchen table she had collected while Mickey was tending to Ian’s injury.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks, Debs,” he replies. Gingerly, he is maneuvering his foot into the dry sock and then reaches for his brace to get it back on.

“I gotta get ready. Holler, if you need me,” she says and Mickey hears her going up the stairs, his eyes caught on something else.

“I guess we should get started on homework-”

“The fuck is this?” Mickey says, holding up a piece of paper that had been lying at the top of Ian’s school stuff.

Ian looks at the offending paper and then visibly blanches.

“Mickey…”

“That’s a mistake, right? No fucking way are these your grades,” Mickey states, breathing heavily through his nose. He looks at Ian’s grades overview, sees mostly Cs on it with the exception of a couple of Bs and Ds.

“I… meant to tell you,” Ian says.

“How the fuck is this possible? You’re supposed to be good.”

“I never said that…” Ian replies meekly.

“You said you’d help me graduate-”

“I am, Mickey! I-I’m just not good at every subject,” Ian says defensively.

“You’re averaging on a C, Ian! How can you have these shit grades when you’re my-” Mickey stops abruptly when he connects the dots. “That’s why Principal Allen didn’t want you in the program. You’re not qualified to tutor anyone!”

“I needed the boost on my extra-curriculars for my West Point application,” Ian explains quietly.

Thinking back it suddenly makes sense to Mickey how more often than not Ian wouldn’t know the answers to his questions, how he would frantically look into the textbooks and study his notes before he would reply to Mickey, how his homework would still be wrong even when Ian had looked over it. All the replies that started or ended in _I guess_ and _I think_ that Ian was stammering were all because he actually didn’t know.

“You fucking asshole…” Mickey exhales speechlessly.

“I didn’t know I was going to tutor you, Mickey. I thought it’d be a freshman, maybe having to tutor one or two subjects. I didn’t know I’d be assigned to you,” Ian tries to explain further.

“I told you how fucking important this is! I told you I needed to graduate no matter what and you fucking lied to me!” Mickey yells, knocking the chair over when he abruptly gets up.

“I’m sorry, okay? I thought I could do it- I _can_ do it, Mickey. I can get you there, trust me,” Ian responds, hurriedly getting up, balancing only on one foot.

“Trust you?” He asks derisively, grabbing Ian’s collar harshly. “If I don’t graduate, I’m dead! You hear me? I’m dead!”

“What?” Ian says taken aback, he reaches for Mickey’s hand currently holding onto his shirt, but Mickey shakes him off immediately.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Mickey says, referring to Ian trying to connect with him through their bond and Ian backs off.

“What do you mean? What’s going to happen when you don’t graduate?” Ian asks, looking at him as if searching Mickey’s face for answers.

The kitchen back door opens and they see Lip walking in.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on? Ian?” Lip asks, carefully eyeing the position Ian and Mickey are in.

“It’s fine, Lip. Give us a minute,” Ian replies, keeping his eyes on Mickey.

“The hell I will. Let him go, Mickey,” Lip says, stepping closer.

If Ian wasn’t already injured and struggling to stay balanced with only one good foot, he’d have shoved him away from him. Instead he simply lets go, takes his backpack, and goes to leave.

“Mickey! Please! Don’t go,” he hears Ian call for him from behind.

Ignoring him, he grabs his jacket he had thrown over the couch earlier and is about to head out when the front door opens and Fiona rushes in, Liam on her hip and Carl trotting in behind her.

“We’re fucked! Carl’s hearing is in an hour and the L has stopped running!”

“What?” Lip asks, helping Ian to the living room.

Ian’s attention is visibly torn between Fiona’s emergency and trying to make things right with Mickey. Mickey ignores him and decides that whatever Gallagher drama is about to unfold this time is not his problem. He makes his way toward Fiona and Carl at the entrance, intending to leave, when Fiona just wordlessly hands Liam over to him in passing. Spluttering, he holds onto the kid, trying not drop him, incredulously looking at Fiona who is currently pulling a reluctant Carl to the little family meeting in the living room.

“The trains are not running due to the snow. Everything’s down. I tried to get a cab, but we’re shit out of luck. What are we gonna do?” Fiona explains, nervously biting on her nails.

“The L is down?” Debbie asks as she hurries down the stairs, joining the sibling meeting.

Mickey points to the kid that had been dumped in his arms, but nobody is paying the slightest attention to him, not even Ian at this point. This family is a nightmare, Mickey thinks and rolls his eyes.

“What about Kev’s truck?” Ian proposes.

“I tried calling him and V, but they’re at her mom’s doing… something. They won’t make it here in time before Carl’s hearing.”

“We could always try and hotwire a car,” Carl suggests, smirking.

Fiona shoots him an annoyed look and then turns to the others.

“What are we gonna do? If he misses the hearing, they’ll probably see him as a flight risk and put him in juvie until the next hearing.”

“Okay, calm down. I’ll try calling them, explain the situation,” Lip says.

“I already tried. I couldn’t get through to the courthouse,” Fiona replies, anxiously exhaling.

“The cell tower around here must have been affected by yesterday’s storm,” Ian says.

Mickey gets distracted when Liam starts touching his face. He glares at him, but Liam doesn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated and keeps squeezing and pulling his cheeks. Each and everyone of these Gallaghers just seem absolutely resistant to his scare tactics. Mickey growls irritably which Liam actually finds funny and in response starts to giggle. He supposes he could let the kid down and just leave, but Fiona handed him over to him, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

“Guess we’ll have to ride in the back of a squad car when they come and get me,” Carl says amused.

“Start taking this seriously, Carl,” Fiona replies.

“I don’t get why you’re making such a big deal. I was going to end up in juvie anyway,” he retorts, making Fiona bury her face in her hands.

“If we want to make it in time, we need to leave now,” Lip points out after checking the time.

“How? The L isn’t running, we can’t get a cab in time, and we don’t have a car,” Debbie replies.

Mickey closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath. In his head he keeps chanting not to get involved.

“I have a car,” Mickey ends up saying. All the Gallaghers turn around to him, acknowledging him for the first time in minutes.

“What? You do?” Fiona asks, stepping closer.

“Mandy will kill me…” he mutters to himself and he doesn’t know if Liam is mocking him when the little guy pats his cheek as if comforting him.

“I know this isn’t your problem, but do you think you could drive us, Mickey? This hearing is important. We need to convince the judge Carl should stay with us. We don’t want him to end up in juvie,” she says.

She looks at him with these overly hopeful eyes. He sees how all the Gallaghers anxiously wait for his answer. Even the toddler in his arms watches him curiously.

“I’m supposed to pick up my sister. She’s being released from juvie in an hour. Guess she’ll have to take the bus,” Mickey says.

“I’ll pick her up,” Lip replies, hurrying to under the stairs where he is grabbing two helmets from their stored stuff. “If you can get Carl and the others to the hearing in time, I’ll go get your sister.”

“Fuck no! Your suicidal ass wants to ride a bike on icy streets, be my guest, but you ain’t gonna get my sister involved,” Mickey barks at him.

“I swear to you I’m gonna make sure she’ll be fine, okay? Trust me, alright? I’ll drive carefully,” Lip says genuinely.

As if he trusts the guy, but when he looks over to Ian he sees him subtly nodding.

“She has so much as a scratch on her and I will gut you,” Mickey tells him, wishing he didn’t currently hold a little toddler in his arms, suspecting it undermining his threat.

“I will take care of her, Mickey. You have my word,” Lip says.

“Take my extra jacket for her, she’ll freeze to death on that thing otherwise,” Debbie tells Lip and they both rush to the kitchen, Lip leaving after Debbie hands him her jacket.

“Thank you, Mickey,” Fiona says. Smiling softly at him, she takes Liam out of his arms and grabs Carl by his neck, leading him outside.

Ian hops a step closer from where he is using the couch to balance himself. He stares at him. Mickey sees he wants to say something, but before he gets to utter a single word Mickey turns away.

“Move it, Gallagher,” he says, walking outside.

LT ->\------- ♡ -------<\- LT

Due to the snow and icy streets the traffic is particularly bad. They barely make it on time. When they enter the court room and Carl walks up to take his place at the defendant's bench, he nods to the visitors sitting on the right of the seating area. Following his line of sight, Mickey can’t believe he sees Daryl, Andre, and their little crew on the other end of the gallery. He grabs Carl by his arm before he walks past the railing.

“They’re your suppliers?” Mickey asks incredulously.

“Yeah, my homies,” he answers, smirking their way.

When he looks over and makes eye contact with Daryl, no love is lost between them. At first they seem as surprised to see Mickey in court as Mickey had been. They sneer his way and Mickey takes one step forward in their direction to confront them when Ian pushes him back and toward the other side of the bench rows.

“Are those his drug gangbangers?” Fiona asks as they sit down.

“Yeah, your brother really knows how to pick ‘em,” Mickey replies, shaking his head. He can’t believe out of all drug circles Carl had to get involved in it had to be Daryl’s.

“That’s the kid from school who’s always watching you, isn’t it?” Ian says. He maneuvers through the row of seats on his crutches, which he had grabbed before heading out, since his sprained ankle is not letting him put any pressure on it at the moment.

“Meet his brother and meathead entourage,” Mickey responds, huffing.

The court is being called to order when the judge takes her seat and she starts the proceedings. As expected Carl is self-destructing on purpose and no amount of cleaning him up before the trial was going to help that. Sure, he looks like a virtuous little nerd with his combed hair, geek glasses, and pristine dress shirt, but his mouth is fouler than any hooker den downtown.

“I can’t believe this kid…” Fiona says in disbelief when Carl starts talking about his plans to build a drug empire for himself.

When the prosecution asks about where the drugs came from the day he was caught, Carl outright tells her he got it from her mother. Daryl and his gang snicker amused from the other side of the gallery which only seems to spur Carl further on. The judge is seconds away from breaking off the hearing and handing out her verdict prematurely, Mickey can tell. He looks around him, taking in the various expressions of desolation. Ian has buried his head in his hand, Debbie is nervously biting on her nails, and Fiona is actually blinking away some tears. When he looks ahead to the judge, he can see her getting worked up, losing her last patience.

Mickey jumps forward and yanks on the public defender’s suit.

“Call for a damn recess, now!” He whispers brusquely.

“Sir, I can’t just-” The man says, garnering the more than unhappy attention from the judge when he engages outside of the court proceedings.

“Do it now! Tell them Carl will give up his suppliers after the recess,” Mickey responds.

“I will?” Carl asks.

“I think I’ve had enough of this, counselor,” the judge says, highly indignant.

“Your honor, defense calls for a recess,” the public defender requests much to the prosecution’s protests.

“I see no reason to draw this spectacle further out, your honor.”

“I am inclined to agree, counselor,” the judge says.

“The defendant has agreed to name his suppliers. If we could just get a short recess to confer, your honor?”

“You have fifteen minutes, not a minute longer,” the judge agrees and bangs her gavel.

“What do you think you’re doing, Milkovich? I ain’t giving up my crew,” Carl says, laid back as always.

He grabs him harshly by his arm and pulls him further away from the others.

“Stop with this bullshit already. Why the fuck are you doing this?” Mickey asks, absolutely fed up with Carl’s attitude.

“I told you, Imma get that scholorship to juvie and make myself a real career,” he says, posturing like the little rascal he is.

“Funny and here I thought the losers who end up in juvie were tossed in there because they screwed the pooch.”

“‘S not like you’re a saint. How many times have you been to juvie?”

“And I can tell you from experience, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, kid,” Mickey says.

“I think I’ll take my chances and find out myself,” he retorts, smirking.

Mickey exhales and shakes his head in irritation.

“I’ll teach you.”

“What?” Carl asks confused.

“You wanna know about the trait? No one better to learn from than a Milkovich,” Mickey replies.

“Shit, really?” Carl asks, his interest having clearly been piqued.

“Yeah, but I can’t teach you shit, if you’re rotting away in juvie,” Mickey states.

Carl ponders Mickey’s offer for a moment. He looks over to Daryl and his crew and seems to make up his mind.

“Nah, not gonna turn on my family like that,” Carl says, flipping his thumb over his nose as he sniffs.

“You think those fuckers over there have your back? Think they give a flying shit about you? Do you honestly believe they’re your family? Look behind me, brat. _That’s_ your family. The people who are currently sick to their stomachs thinking you’ll end up behind bars. You see what you’re doing to your _actual_ family? Now, I don’t get why you Gallaghers are always up in each other’s business, how you give a thousand fucks. But _you_ know! You’re a Gallagher and you know how it’s eating you guys up whenever one of you is in shit trouble. You know exactly what you’re doing to them. So cut that crap out already and act like a goddamn Gallagher who takes care of his family, you little dipshit!”

Carl glances meekly over to Fiona and the others and then averts his gaze to the ground.

“Fuck, okay, but it’s not like I can just rat the guys out. I’ll probably gonna end up having an accident on my way home,” he whispers.

Mickey looks over to them, grinding his teeth. Carl is right, they’re never going to let it slide, if the kid snitched on them. It’s probably the only reason why they’re here, to make sure Carl is keeping his mouth shut.

“I’ll deal with them. Wait here,” Mickey says and makes his way to the exit, passing by the guys, giving them a nod to follow him outside.

As he steps inside the hallway he brushes his hand over his face. Exhaling deeply he turns around to meet Daryl and his crew midway. It’s the first time since the shooting he’s faced Daryl. His scar itches as if it’s aware. He steps closer to the guys and, suddenly, hears the familiar sound of someone on crutches approaching from behind. Ian stoically situates himself behind him and Mickey wants to roll his eyes. It’s not exactly building a display of intimidation when he’s got a skinny ginger on crutches backing him.

“Now, what is a Milkovich doing at this hearing?” Daryl asks, crossing his arms.

“Believe it or not, just playing chauffeur,” he replies with an innocent smile.

“’S not what it looked like in there. Defense saying something about the whiteboy snitchin’, now that can’t be right,” Daryl says, his voice taking on a certain edge.

“Yeah, about that,” Mickey replies, scratching his temple and laughing a little. “The kid’s not going to juvie. You guys will have to find someone else to take the fall.”

Daryl and his crew slowly start to laugh, looking at each other as if they’ve just heard a funny joke.

“You hear that? Real clown we got here,” Daryl says and then turns to Mickey. “Little Carl in there is five minutes away from being dragged out of here in cuffs. Gotta love me some white ass taking the rap for another brother.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Daryl. You’re gonna give me a name – make that two names – Carl can give to the prosecution, so he can walk out of here. I know you’ve been planning to send some of your boys to juvie for a while now. Little birdie tells me your gang in there is taking quiet the heat. Nazis are putting your guys on their asses. Last fallout they shanked two- no, three of your buddies? Another two of yours being released last month. Numbers are not looking good, Daryl,” Mickey lays out and based on how Daryl is clenching his jaw, he’s hit the mark.

“Ah and by your logic Imma just do you a favor in the process, I suppose?” Daryl asks, eyebrows raised mockingly.

“Would be refreshing for a change, don’t you think?” He replies, smiling.

“Looking at your smug little face really makes me regret not having put that bullet between your eyes, Milkovich,” Daryl says wistfully.

“That reminds me, still gotta return the favor for that one. Eighteen stitches,” he says holding his hand up.

“Don’t worry, next time no amount of stitches will keep you together,” Daryl replies easily.

“Yeah, we both know that you’re in hot water with your bosses for the shit you’re pulling on the streets with my old man. Terry won’t need to come after you, you’d get done by your own gang, if you picked another fight with a Milkovich. So, how about I just graciously forget about you shooting me and that little snitching stunt your brother here pulled on me at school, and in turn you give Carl a pass?” Mickey says, eyeing Andre knowingly.

Daryl huffs derisively. He thinks about it for a moment though, until he sneers and takes a step forward to Mickey.

“Nah, I’ll find another opportunity to send my guys in there. In the meantime I have your little whiteboy doing my bidding. He’ll join my crew, guy seems eager to please. I just hope he ain’t the next one getting shanked when they’re standing their ground against them fucking nazis,” he responds, smirking.

Ian rushes forward, but Mickey holds him back immediately and gets him to stand down, before he can say anything that will end in a brawl inside a goddamn courthouse. Mickey is crowding him to back off. He makes Ian look him in the eyes, signaling him that he’s got this. Ian exhales heavily. He’s tense and angry, but the longer he looks Mickey in the eyes the more he loosens his strained posture and eventually he nods subtly. When he’s sure Ian won’t try anything, he turns around to Daryl again.

“Sure, that could happen. Could also be that other kid brother of yours will run into a shiv before they get to Carl. From what I’ve heard he took the rap for you on a drug raid, so you’d avoid real prison time. Got a lot of kids taking the fall for you. Maybe you should start manning up and take responsibility for your own shit,” Mickey says, this time he is the one taking a step forward, getting right in Daryl’s face. “Do we have a fucking deal?”

Daryl visibly bristles, but Mickey knows he’s got him. He waits him out, trying to ignore the ticking clock behind him.

“On one condition, Milkovich,” Daryl says, all the fake politeness long gone from his voice. “The school is ours. Andre gets your turf.”

He stifles the words to tell him off in the nick of time, clenching his teeth shut. There is no fucking way he can hand over the school to them. He balls his hands into fists, digging the fingernails painfully in his palms.

“Ian, Mickey! They’re about to continue with the hearing,” Debbie says, her head sticking out of the door to the courtroom.

“What’s it gonna be, Milkovich? That Gallagher kid or your turf?”

LT ->\------- ♡ -------<\- LT

“Get the bottle of sparkling wine I stole from work!” Fiona says excitedly when they make their way back into the Gallagher house and Lip asks how the hearing went.

“No way!” Lip retorts. Rushing over, he rustles through Carl’s hair and hugs him. “How the fuck did you get off the hook?”

“Snitched,” Carl answers with a sigh, but when Ian and Lip both playfully rough-house with him, he actually starts laughing happily.

“I hope this concludes your drug empire aspirations, Carl,” Fiona says, hands on her hips.

Carl looks over to Mickey and smirks.

“Don’t worry, there are other career paths I’d like to get to know.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. Carl is going to be a huge pain in the ass, Mickey is already sure of it.

Carl skips up the stairs, saying he has to get out of the dork clothes and Debbie follows him to put a sleeping Liam in his bed.

When Mickey turns around he finds himself facing a flying fist, punching him square in the face.

“ _Ow! The fuck?!_ ” He cries out, doubling over. When he looks up who the hell punched him, he sees his sister standing in front of him, eyes narrowed, a deep scowl on her face.

“Your dumb ass actually stood me up! How did I know this would happen, fuckhead?” Mandy says, crossing her arms annoyed.

Hissing from the pain, Mickey gingerly touches his nose and finds it bleeding slightly.

“Ow, you bitch… Since when can you punch like that?” Mickey mutters. “It wasn’t my fault, okay. Something came up…”

“You learn a thing or two when you’re in juvie. Be glad I didn’t beat you with a towel full of soap,” Mandy replies, leaning lazily on one leg. “And I’ve heard. Since when do you hang with the Gallagher bunch?”

She looks around eyeing Ian and Fiona. Mickey exhales annoyed and steps forward. She meets him midway and they pull each other into a hug.

“Finally grew some tits in there, little sis,” Mickey says, grinning.

“And I can already see your dick is as small as ever,” Mandy replies and even though he can’t see her face, he knows she is smiling just like he is.

“Sorry I left you hanging,” Mickey says quietly into her hair.

“You’re forgiven since you sent that tasty hunk to pick me up,” she whispers into his ear.

Mickey’s eyes go wide. He searches the room for Lip who immediately averts his eyes, scratching his cheek. Now that he has a closer look, he thinks he recognizes Lip’s scarf around Mandy’s neck.

“Oh, no no no. No!” Mickey says, glaring at her.

She just winks at him, deep smirk etched into her face as she fiddles around with the woolen scarf.

“Hi. Mandy, right?” Ian greets with a friendly smile, stepping closer. “We were in the same class last year, before you…”

“Before I got my ass tossed in juvie?” Mandy says easily. “Yeah, I remember. You’re Ian, right?”

Ian nods and lets out a little laugh.

“I still can’t believe I didn’t get to see you beating that pervert douchebag to a pulp. The one day I had to be sick at home… I heard it was quite the spectacle though!”

“He still teaching?” Mandy asks, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, but he now steers clear from any female students. And he practically shits his pants whenever he passes another Milkovich relative of yours. Especially Mickey here,” he says amused, nodding toward him.

When their eyes meet, Ian smiles softly. Mickey slowly averts his eyes, licks his lips distractedly, and then looks up to his sister.

“We should get goin’,” he tells Mandy.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Fiona shouts, making her way into the living room from the kitchen where she had disappeared to earlier. “I’m making your favorite, Mickey – meatloaf with mashed potato.”

“Thanks, but we need to head out,” Mickey says and studiously doesn’t look Ian’s way.

“Speak for yourself, that fucking sounds delicious. I haven’t had a decent meal for the past one and a half years. I’m staying,” Mandy retorts.

“No, I really-”

“Great! Then it’s decided, you’re staying for dinner,” Fiona says joyfully.

“Wanna show me your room, hot stuff?” Mandy asks as she skips closer to Lip.

Mickey eyes how they shyly smile at each other and Lip nods his head upstairs to where his sister follows him. He so does not like this little development.

Fiona steps into the line of his death glare and, suddenly, wraps her arms around him, squeezing him tightly.

“Thank you, Mickey,” she whispers into his ear. “I don’t know what you did, but I know Carl’s only home because of you,” she says. She squeezes him even tighter and then kisses his neck softly as she starts to let him go. Holding onto his face with both hands, she smiles warmly at him. “You’re ever looking for some home cooked meal, you come here, okay?”

Out of his element, he awkwardly nods his head. He feels her soft and warm hands on his cheeks and he tries to keep the eye contact.

When she lets him go to head into the kitchen in order to prepare dinner, he finds himself suddenly alone with Ian. They steal a few silent glances, awkwardly standing in the living room.

“Can we talk?” Ian says eventually.

Seeing as he can’t avoid Ian anyway, he nods his head. They make their way upstairs to Ian’s room where Liam is sleeping and Carl agrees to leave them alone when Ian asks him.

Mickey shrugs his jacket off, throws it over the chair next to Ian’s bed, and then leans against the wooden dresser, arms crossed.

Ian takes his coat off as well and makes his way over to Liam to check on him. He shuffles around for a while in silence, keeping his distance.

“What you did for Carl today, thank you,” Ian says eventually, hesitantly looking in Mickey’s direction.

“Yeah, sure,” Mickey replies, shrugging.

“Are you gonna be fine? With your dad, I mean?” He asks, swaying his balance back and forth on his crutches. Mickey wonders if he’s sore from having to use crutches again after so long or if it’s just nervous energy.

“I’ll find a way to deal with him,” Mickey answers.

Ian nods, apparently unsure of what to reply.

“Mickey…” He says in that soft voice of his. Mickey closes his eyes, exhaling quietly. He hears him stepping closer. “I want you to know that I took tutoring you seriously. I applied to the program, because I knew I needed something other than my ROTC training to make up for my grades, if I wanted any chance at getting into West Point. Unsurprisingly, I got rejected. Then a day later I get a message from the principal, telling me to meet my program partner in the guidance counselor's office and suddenly you walk in. I really had no idea why Principal Allen thought I could tutor _you_ when I was initially rejected for not having good enough grades. But since you were the only reason why I got admitted to the program in the first place, I knew I had to find a way to tutor you. But, Mickey…” he says, pausing and Mickey wonders what his expression looks like in the moment, but when he opens his eyes, he can’t help but keep them glued to the floor. “That really didn’t matter to me once I realized how important it was for you to graduate. We study almost every day, Mickey. The stupid study program expects us to meet twice a week. And more than anything, I liked spending time with you. If extra studying meant I could hang out with you, I didn’t mind reading through a couple more textbooks for you. You’re a lot of fun, Mickey,” he says, chuckling and this time Mickey does look up, sees him smiling softly. “I don’t think there is anybody else, including you, who wants to see you graduate more than me,” he adds, looking him in the eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you.”

Mickey supposes it’s true that Ian cared about getting him to graduate. The guy was always excited to see Mickey make progress. Ian’s motivation was at the very least a lot purer than Mickey’s. Ian genuinely wanted to see him pass his tests and not for any other reason than seeing him succeed.

“Yeah… Sorry, I freaked out…” Mickey can’t help but reply, clearing his throat as he glances away.

Ian steps further toward Mickey, stops about two feet from him.

“Do you wanna tell me what you meant with what you said earlier?” He asks.

Biting his lower lip, Mickey lets his eyes flicker around the room.

“I… got caught doing something which, if my dad found out, would kill me for. Principal Allen promised to keep his mouth shut as long as I buckled down and studied like any other high school senior,” he says hesitantly.

“Why would he kill you? What did you do?” Ian asks and Mickey can feel his gaze on him.

He tastes blood on his lip, but can’t seem to stop digging his teeth into it.

“I… was caught being myself,” he simply replies.

Ian doesn’t seem to understand what that means by the look he shoots him, but he does seem to understand the gravity of it. Nodding once, he steps yet again closer and Mickey can now feel the heat radiating off him.

“You know, when I’m around you I always feel like myself,” Ian says quietly. Hesitantly, he looks up, nervously licking his lips. He leans on his good foot and puts his crutches to the side. He balances himself by reaching for the dresser behind Mickey, holding himself up with one arm. Mickey startles a little, reflexively leans back with Ian’s motion, and anxiously eyes him crowding him. “I feel like the old me. I feel in control. I feel happy – _just_ happy,” he says, laughing at something only he understands. His other arm reaches out and now Mickey is boxed in from both sides and he wonders what Ian is doing. Ian’s hand grips the knob from the drawer next to his hip and pulls it out. Holding up a prescription bottle, he hands it to Mickey.

“What is this?” Mickey asks, reading the same label he had when he found the plastic container in Ian’s bag.

“Mood stabilizers. The other one is an antipsychotic,” he responds and nods to the drawer where the second prescription bottle lies. Mickey looks at him confused. “I’m bipolar, Mickey. It’s manic depression. It means I get high highs and low lows over and over again,” he explains and his mouth settles into a firm line. “I guess other people would call me nuts, insane, mad… crazy,” he says, shaking his head, eyes downcast. “I was diagnosed this year when I spent my summer either coked up on the streets or holed up in my bed. Getting diagnosed was like a death sentence. You have no idea what this sickness means. I saw my life passing me by, everything I had planned to do, everything that seemed impossible now. You always say you’re fucked for life. This,” he takes Mickey’s hand with the prescription bottle, the bond immediately connecting upon the contact, “is what it means to be fucked for life.”

“But… you seemed fine all this time…” Mickey says and watches how Ian is eyeing him as if trying to figure something out.

“Like I said, when I’m around you I feel like myself again. I feel like the real me,” he replies, slowly taking the meds out of Mickey’s hand and putting it back in the drawer. Mickey doesn’t really understand what that means. He looks at Ian, takes in the proximity between them, and swallows. Ian follows the movement with his eyes, only to look up again and stare into his eyes. He feels the air getting thinner, feels the heat rising at his neck, and he doesn’t know how to take a second longer of this. He averts his eyes, clears his throat, and when he looks back at Ian, the latter gives him a sad smile, slowly retreating. “Maybe one day you’ll show me the real you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're feeling like it, leave some love!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic depictions of violence.

“So when do we start?”

“It’s been five minutes since I’m here and you’re already on my case,” Mickey says, glaring.

“And yet you already have a grilled cheese sandwich in front of you.”

“I was invited to lunch,” Mickey replies, pulling the plate closer. Fiona had made him one before she headed out to her job at the supermarket. His mouth is already watering; it looks damn delicious.

“Can we still call it invitation, if you’re here everyday anyway?”

“Do you mind?” He says with emphasis. He wants to eat in peace.

“No, we got shit to do.”

“Fuck off. I’m eating,” Mickey retorts and finally takes a bite. He groans in appreciation after tasting the delicious melted cheese.

“You promised, Milkovich.”

“I swear you and your damn brother are the same kind of obnoxious little shits,” Mickey says, glaring at Carl who is leaning against the table right next to his grilled cheese.

“You told me you’d teach me everything I wanna know if I turned on Daryl’s gang. Deal’s a deal,” Carl responds unperturbed.

“And what a deal I made. I lost on all fronts _and_ I got punched in the face for helping you,” Mickey grumbles annoyed, trying to enjoy the sandwich even with the little shit breathing down his neck.

“Are you gonna whine like a bitch or are you finally gonna drop some wisdom?” Carl asks, eyebrow raised expectantly.

“Okay, kid, lesson number one: How to properly threaten somebody,” Mickey replies, fed up. “First, you lure them in. Make ‘em think you’re on even ground,” he says easily while chewing on his sandwich, seeing Carl eagerly listening to him. He’s making it too easy for him, Mickey thinks. “Second, you establish a situation which puts them in a corner,” Mickey continues. “You’re doing your court ordered community service on the clean-up crew, right? Not too bad, really, all things considered. Did that myself on my first 80 hours. I’m still buddies with the guy running the crew. He’s actually somewhat of a sadistic psycho. Dude has a few screws loose. Tends to always pick a guy to really torment. Of course that was never me, since I know how to not antagonize somebody who could really make my life a living hell. But I do wonder how a scrawny little dipshit who clearly doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut will deal,” Mickey muses out loud. He puts his sandwich down and takes the napkin to clean his fingers before he looks back up to Carl. “Third, you drive home your point by laying out in gruesome detail what you’re gonna do to the guy, if he doesn’t do what you want. Either your little pasty ass is gonna back the fuck off while I eat my sandwich or I’m gonna make a call to my old pal, suggesting to pay special attention to a Carl Gallagher on his spread sheet. And trust me, you won’t see anything else but the park’s public toilets for the entirety of your 200 hours of community service,” he lays out, pointedly raising his eyebrows. “How is that for teaching you?”

Carl actually swallows, for once he’s wiped away that smug smirk off his face. Mickey looks at him expectantly.

“What are you still doing here? Fuck off, kid!”

Carl begrudgingly makes his way upstairs without another word.

“A bit rusty, but good to know I still got it,” Mickey mutters self-satisfied and devours the rest of his grilled cheese.

“Hey, you’re already here?” Ian greets as he comes climbing down the stairs on his crutches. He’s wearing his pajamas and his hair still looks sleep ruffled.

“Yo, you been sleeping until now?” He asks, watching him get himself a cup of coffee.

“Couldn’t sleep much last night. My ankle was killing me,” he explains, sighing.

Yawning, he reaches under his sleep shirt and scratches his chest distractedly. Mickey eyes his ripped stomach. He comes to the weirdly satisfying realization that the small hairs disappearing behind the elastic band of his pajama pants are red as well.

“Sure you didn’t break something again yesterday?” He asks, taking a deep breath as he looks away.

“Don’t think so…”

“That doesn’t sound confident at all, Gallagher,” Mickey points out, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t wanna go to the hospital,” he says and shuffles gingerly over to the kitchen table with only one of his crutches, trying not to spill his coffee on the way.

“You’re an idiot,” Mickey replies, pointedly looking at him.

“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear that from you,” Ian says and takes a sip from his mug.

“Want me to break your other ankle too?” Mickey asks, raising his eyebrow.

“Want me to really break your nose?” Ian retorts, eyeing his bruised nose. Mandy really did a number on him. While she didn’t break anything, it turned blotchy red and purple over night. Not to mention it throbs painfully every time he breathes.

“Suit yourself, if you wanna keep walking on a busted foot,” Mickey snorts and immediately regrets it when it agitates his injured nose. He reaches for his backpack, pulling out his textbooks. “We still haven’t done our Spanish homework. Guess we start with that?”

When Mickey flips through the pages Ian puts his hand on the cover and closes it.

“I was thinking we could take a break today,” he says.

“I thought you’re taking tutoring me seriously?” Mickey asks, eyeing Ian sliding the book away.

“It’s Saturday. We can take a break. Besides, we haven’t even properly celebrated you getting a B on your English test yet,” Ian replies.

“Celebrate? How?” Mickey huffs amused. “You can’t go anywhere with that ankle of yours and we have both established that we are shit broke.”

“We have beer in the fridge and I thought we could watch these,” he says, reaching behind him to the counter. He holds out several DVDs of Van Damme and Seagal movies.

Mickey grins, licking the inside of his cheek. That sounds a lot better than Spanish homework.

LT ->\------ ♡ ------<\- LT

“You see that, Mickey? Double Impact Van Damme!” Ian says, cheering the guy on TV on.

Rolling his eyes, he stuffs a hot pocket in his mouth.

“Fuck Van Damme,” Mickey says, smacking on the hot pocket.

They rip into each other for a while, arguing who has the better moves, playing a few scenarios through. They’re on the third movie, eight beers and a pack of cigarettes in. For once the Gallagher house is quiet. Carl had gone out after they popped in the second movie, Fiona is still at work, Lip is off to wherever he usually pisses off to nowadays, and Debbie is out with Liam. It’s been fun. Mickey’s got a light buzz going and enjoys a day where he doesn’t need to study and can just let loose.

Ian shifts his leg, which is currently propped up on a cushion on the coffee table, grunting at the discomfort.

“Shouldn’t you at least take some painkillers?” Mickey eyes the ankle worriedly.

“We don’t have any in the house since I took the last one a couple months back, which by the way I can’t recommend taking on a mix of Lithium and Olanzipine. Got me so loopy and nauseated, I spent a weekend throwing up,” he says.

“How… how do they usually make you feel?” Mickey asks curiously. Apart from what Ian has told him yesterday, he doesn’t really have a clue about any of this.

“They’re not called downers for nothing…” Ian replies quietly. “They make me feel like shit.”

“Did you… take them today?” He asks, wondering. Up until now Ian seemed completely like his usual cheerful self. He’s never really seen him down.

Ian glances his way a few times. He takes a couple drags from his cigarette.

“I haven’t taken them for months now.”

Mickey stares at him. He was under the impression this bipolar thing was serious. It didn’t seem like taking the meds was optional.

“That sounds bad, Ian… Why not?”

“I told you, since we started hanging out I feel fine,” Ian says, shrugging.

“What? You stopped taking your meds because of me?” Mickey asks incredulously.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Ian replies, not looking at him.

“But-”

“I said, it’s fine,” Ian cuts him off and then sighs. “Please can we not talk about this?”

Ian takes a puff from his smoke and then hands him the cigarette. Their fingers brush against each other and he feels the bond connecting for the brief moment they touch. By now Mickey is used to how their skin contact elicits the strange sensation between them, but he’s still not sure he wants to accept its existence the way Ian does. At times it makes him wonder how invested Ian has become in this. He seems to believe that Mickey is special in some way and not only because nobody has ever thought that about him can’t he really fathom why Ian would think that. Why he would even go so far as to stop taking his meds. No matter how much Ian likes the time they spend hanging out with each other, it can’t possibly make him think that it’s fine to ditch his medication. In fact that actually makes him sound psychotic.

When he hands the cigarette back for Ian to finish, he feels them connecting again for a second. It makes him wonder, if whatever this is will be forever a part of their lives. They’ve been living with this thing for only a couple of months now, but Mickey finds it hard to imagine what it would be like to going back to how things were before. He can’t even comprehend what it would feel like touching Ian and not connect like this. He can’t fathom what it would be like for Ian to be a person just like anybody else.

Ian eyes him curiously, apparently wondering what he’s thinking about. The movie continues to play in the background, but Mickey finds he hasn’t been paying attention for the last ten minutes or so.

“If we ever find a way to get rid of this thing between us… what would you do?” Mickey asks, staring at his beer bottle.

“Why are you saying that?” Ian replies, not looking at him. He squirms a little, shifting his propped up leg on the coffee table. He grimaces, much like he has been continuously doing this afternoon.

“Just wonderin’,” Mickey says, shrugging.

It’s quiet for a moment aside from the special sound effects coming from the TV whenever Van Damme punches and kicks a guy.

“Would you want to get rid of it?” Ian asks eventually.

“It’s not normal and it doesn’t really do anything. We still haven’t figured out a thing about it. It doesn’t really seem to have any purpose,” Mickey replies, fiddling with the label on his bottle.

“You know my theory,” Ian simply says, both still not looking at each other.

“Yeah…” Mickey exhales, looking up at the ceiling. He is not really interested in getting into that topic again.

“Answer me this, Mickey, even if we haven’t gained anything from this, doesn’t it feel like we’d lose something, if it wasn’t there anymore?”

Mickey turns to look at him. Brows furrowed, he ponders over it for a while.

“So we just keep living like this for the rest of our lives?” Mickey asks, dubiously looking toward Ian.

“Why not?” Ian says, shrugging.

And to that question Mickey doesn’t seem to find an answer.

They finish the movie in silence, though Ian keeps shifting around, trying to get more comfortable with his leg every few minutes. The way Ian has increasingly been fiddling around with his ankle this afternoon, he’s pretty sure the guy needs to see a doctor. If he doesn’t have anything he can pop in to take the edge off, he should at least ice the ankle to numb the pain.

A sudden thought creeps into Mickey’s mind and he furrows his eyebrows, eyeing Ian for a moment.

“What?” Ian asks when he notices.

“Put your leg on the couch for a bit,” Mickey says.

“Why?” Ian asks, but already lifts his leg over so it rests on the empty space between them.

“Take your brace off,” Mickey tells him and puts away his beer.

“What is it?” Ian eyes him nervously. He nods to Ian’s brace questioningly and when Ian nods his go-ahead in return, Mickey starts to take it off. “Do you wanna tell me what you’re doing?”

“You ever notice how when we touch it seems to numb pain?” Mickey asks.

“What?”

“Didn’t really notice a pattern until now, but in the beginning when you started with your stupid experiments I remember my hand felt fine for hours after I went home. Almost ripped my stitches once when I forgot I was hurt,” he explains, holding the hand with the scar up. At first he had chalked it up to the bond’s sensation simply distracting him enough he hadn’t noticed the pain anymore. But now that he thinks about it he can’t remember having been in pain when Ian touched him. Not when it was his injured hand or his sore throat. He also remembers a few other occasions where he had been hurt, but was completely pain free after Ian had touched him. He just hadn’t really noticed until now. The sensation shouldn’t overwrite anything else since it’s not actually physical, but it did relieve his pain. The more he thinks about it the more he is certain.

“What are you saying?” Ian asks and watches intently how Mickey cradles his foot and lifts it on his lap.

“You’re always doing these weird experiments. Today I do one,” Mickey replies and can’t believe he’s actually said that.

Pulling off Ian’s sock, he sees a deeply bruised ankle. It’s purple and red, has even black dots here and there, and it’s pretty badly swollen. He snaps his head up to Ian.

“Jesus, Ian, are you kidding me? This looks real bad. You really need to see a doctor,” he says disapprovingly.

“Do whatever you wanted to do, Mickey,” Ian replies impatiently, pushing him to go on.

Exhaling a deep breath of frustration, he turns his attention to Ian’s injured ankle. He tries to remember if there was something special they did whenever he was injured that felt different, something that could explain why the pain vanished after these little sessions, but he can’t think of anything. Reaching for Ian’s ankle he carefully places his hands around it. Ian grunts out in pain at the touch, but nods at him to go ahead. The bond clicks into place like usual and Mickey doesn’t really know what to do now. He lets it move around in waves a little, concentrating on the injured area.

“Still feeling pain?” Mickey asks, studying Ian’s face. He is still grimacing slightly, biting his lip.

“Yeah…” He answers, concentrating intently on what he’s feeling. “You’re doing it right?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I’m doing right now,” Mickey replies.

He looks back down at the ankle and focuses on the bond again. He keeps stimulating it at random, moves his hands around a bit to see if that makes a difference, but judging by the look on Ian’s face he is causing more pain instead of less.

Feeling stupid for even having the wild notion of being able to help, he wants to abort this little experiment after nothing seems to happen for more than five minutes. He is about to remove his hands when Ian makes a wondering sort of noise.

“I think it’s less now, Mickey,” Ian says. He has his eyes closed, focusing intently on the feeling around his ankle.

“Sure?” Mickey asks dubiously. Ian might just imagine things, if he wants it to work too badly.

“Yeah, keep going,” he replies.

Still not sure he can trust Ian’s assessment, he continues his ministrations. Though he’s really just letting the bond settle around the area of Ian’s injury. Basically he’s doing nothing.

Ian’s eyes are closed and Mickey takes the moment to study his face. His head is tilted in concentration and his brows are a bit furrowed, most likely from the pain. His lips are just the slightest bit parted. They look soft, Mickey thinks. He lingers at the sight for a long moment until his eyes wander over the many freckles adorning his pale skin and stop at the fair lashes on Ian’s currently closed eyes. For some reason the combination, everything about Ian’s face, is just really pretty. He startles a little when about ten minutes later he realizes he’s still staring and quickly tears his gaze away when Ian opens his eyes as he slowly starts to smile.

“Mickey,” he says excitedly. “It’s really getting less and less painful!”

He watches how Ian beams at him. Mickey is still not really convinced. Remembering his own experiences, he’s pretty sure the numbness was immediate and not gradual.

Ian gasps suddenly, staring down at his ankle in Mickey’s hands.

“Fuck, look!” He says.

Mickey looks down and his eyes widen. The before so angry looking discoloration has faded to at least a half of its previous degree. The swelling has gone down too.

“What the fuck…”

“You see it, right?” Ian asks nervously.

“No fucking way…” Mickey exhales, staring at the ankle in his hands.

“I think… I think you’re actually healing me,” Ian whispers stupefied.

If he didn’t see it with his own eyes while it was happening, he wouldn’t believe it. Quiet frankly he still can’t fully believe it. He keeps his hands where they are and watches alongside Ian for the next fifteen minutes how the discoloration completely fades away.

“It’s gone. I don’t feel any pain anymore,” Ian says and pulls his foot out of Mickey’s lap.

Mickey watches intently as Ian slowly stands up and puts his foot on the ground. They look at each other for a brief moment and then with bated breath they watch how he starts to put pressure on it. After the initial test seems to show it’s safe to put his weight on it, Ian begins to rock from side to side. When he still seems fine, Ian outright jumps. And keeps on jumping.

“So I take it you’re feeling fine?” Mickey stares in utter disbelief when Ian starts doing squat jumps.

He collapses on the ground after doing about thirty jumps, but that having nothing to with his supposed to be broken ankle. Breathing heavily, he stares at Mickey speechlessly.

“You just healed a broken ankle… with your _hands_!

Mickey rubs his hands over his face and then stares at the mentioned hands disbelievingly.

“I just healed a broken ankle… with my _hands…_ ” Mickey repeats incredulously. “That’s impossible!”

“It happened…” Ian says and slowly gets up to sit down on the coffee table in front of Mickey. “Don’t freak out.”

“ _Don’t freak out?!_ We are way past freaking out, Ian!” He retorts. When he tries to jump up from his seat, Ian reaches forward and holds him down by his arm and thigh.

“Okay, calm down, Mickey. We knew we might be able to do… special things,” Ian says, trying to talk him down. “Emma and Katie can always feel where the other is. Rajan can visit Kala in his dreams. We knew we might be able to do… something. Now we know what it is.”

“Heal-” Mickey can’t even say it, that’s how ridiculous this all is. “No way this is actually happening!”

“So, yeah, it’s a bit more special than I had thought, but, Mickey,” Ian says with emphasis, making him look at him. “You just healed a broken ankle… Isn’t that… badass?” He asks and smiles in utter reverence at him.

Mickey breathes, replaying what he just did in his mind. He saw the skin clear up, he saw the swelling go down, he knows he did it, even if he doesn’t know how.

“That is pretty badass, isn’t it…” Mickey mutters, still a little shell-shocked.

Ian nods, laughing nervously. He gasps when a sudden realization hits him.

“That’s why I feel fine around you…” He whispers, staring at him shocked.

“What?” Mickey asks and he gets a bit worried how Ian seems to be the one to suddenly freak out now.

“That’s why I’m fine even though I’m not taking the meds anymore,” he says and then looks up at him. “Did you heal my bipolar?”

“What? How the fuck could I possibly-” Mickey replies, but cuts himself off when he looks at Ian’s foot. “No, okay, that’s- no way I can do that,” he says, shaking his head.

Ian seems to think about it for a while, by the looks of it trying to sift through some of his memories.

“No, I think I still have it. Last weekend I had a depressive episode,” he says, visibly deflating upon the realization. Mickey looks at him in concern. He hadn’t known Ian had been depressed recently. He feels a bit guilty, since he’s avoided Ian for the past couple of weeks. “But it still means whatever you’re doing is suppressing my bipolar.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Mickey says emphatically. “You’re the one usually messing around with… it. I do jack shit.”

“Well, you doing shit is pretty damn spectacular,” Ian replies huffing. He studies Mickey’s face and then reaches his hands out. Mickey jerks away reflexively.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Unperturbed, Ian takes Mickey’s face in both his hands and stares intently.

“If you can do it, I should be able to do it too, right?” He says determinedly. His thumbs brush over his cheekbones and then still gingerly on Mickey’s nose.

Mickey gets a bit cross-eyed, trying to see what Ian’s doing. He still doesn’t know how he feels about this, but Ian is already shuffling closer from his perch on the coffee table. He feels the bond tickle around the area of his nose and while it is not actually tickling him, since it isn’t physical, it’s still quiet distracting.

“Careful,” he grumbles when Ian rubs over, what he knows is, a particular sensitive spot.

“It’s still painful?” Ian asks.

“No, hasn’t been since you started,” Mickey says.

They keep doing this for about fifteen minutes and Mickey watches how increasingly frustrated Ian gets.

“It’s not healing, is it?”

“No, not even the slightest bit,” Ian says in irritation. “It’s just a minor bruise, it should be gone by now, right?”

“My hand never healed when you touched it before,” Mickey simply replies.

“But… I don’t understand why. What’s the difference?” Ian asks frustrated and Mickey pulls his hands away from his face.

“Don’t know, Ian. But at least it doesn’t fucking hurt anymore,” Mickey replies with a sigh.

“I must not be doing this right. Like before. You gotta teach me!” Ian says and starts reaching for Mickey’s face again.

Mickey intercepts his hands and pointedly pulls them down.

“I don’t think that’s it, Ian. Seriously, I’m not doing anything. You can ask me to teach you a thousand times, it’s not gonna make a difference. I’m pretty sure it won’t happen.”

“But why?” Ian asks and looks utterly aggrieved by the possibility.

Shaking his head, Mickey looks at him without having the answers.

“The fuck do I know,” Mickey says, overwhelmed by all of this. His eyes land on Ian’s hands in his between them. He sees the slightly dry, red marks where the crutches had been chafing Ian’s palms. Letting the bond settle in their hands, he watches how only a minute later the skin turns smooth and pristine again. He looks up to Ian, who has watched and noticed what Mickey was doing. “Let’s wrap our heads around this shit first, before we worry about anything else.”

LT ->\------ ♡ ------<\- LT

Healing is a thing now too apparently. As if a global freak event and metaphysical bonding with his study partner wasn’t already insane enough. Now he can also heal people as it were. Well, he can heal one person. Just Ian. Which he had to find out in a very humiliating way when he tried to heal Iggy's cut on the back of his hand he had sustained on a recent run, on which he had let him go alone, and forced Iggy to let him hold his hand for five minutes with nothing happening. The cut wouldn't heal and Mickey was left standing in front of a very disturbed brother, barking some feeble explanation as to what that was all about. Iggy had looked at him as if Mickey had lost his mind. For which he can't blame him. Mickey starts to think so too. What the ever fucking shit is happening to his life? Is he going to turn green or grow horns next? How about flying? Is that something that could happen? More than ever Mickey just wants to be normal.

Maybe he can pretend this never happened. He’s only got to stop thinking about it, get Ian to stop talking about it, make sure he never gets into the situation where he has to heal him again, and over time he might be able to convince himself he was delusional enough to imagine he healed somebody’s broken ankle. Who is he kidding? As if Ian would ever let this go. Not to mention that Mickey has a hard time believing Ian wouldn’t get hurt again. For all his usual grace and physical prowess, the guy falls down a lot. Not to mention if Ian’s theory is actually right and Mickey is suppressing Ian’s bipolar, then that is not something Mickey can simply ignore, can he? Especially considering Ian has a clear aversion to taking his meds. But how is that his problem? That is an Ian problem. Mickey has enough of his own. But when he imagines Ian slipping and injuring himself again, he can’t even play out in his head the thought of not helping him. He has gotten way too soft around that ginger.

It is freezing cold and he honestly believes his butt will fall off, if they don’t head inside the school soon. Hands tucked under his armpits, he glares at Ian who is currently doing suicides on the little roof they’re on. He watches him go back and forth, trying to go faster and faster, and uses him for the longest point to turn back around, unnecessarily tapping him every damn time he reaches him. Ian has been doing this for the better half of their free period, much to Mickey’s annoyance. He doesn’t understand why he has to oversee Ian’s training. It’s cold. Why can’t the guy make up for lost time in the cozy confines of a heated building? Ever since Mickey healed Ian’s ankle the guy has been relentless in trying to get fit quickly. As he puts it, he’s only got half a year until West Point and he needs to make every day count, if he wants to pass the aptitude test. How this involves him is still beyond Mickey though.

“If I get frostbites because of you, I’m gonna be real pissed,” Mickey mutters and doubles the intensity of his glare when Ian taps him again.

“You’re grumpy today,” Ian states, breathing heavily and starts to go faster.

“Gee, I wonder why,” Mickey replies and rolls his eyes. “Do you have to do this when it’s frigging 30 degrees at the moment?”

“Gotta be able to adapt to any climate,” Ian says and pushes himself further.

“In case you get stationed in commi Russia?” Mickey scoffs annoyed.

“You never know,” he replies and then taps him again.

“Why am I here?” Mickey asks, irritably exhaling through his nose in response.

“To keep me company,” Ian answers easily.

“Trust me had I known this is why you dragged me out in the cold, I wouldn’t have come,” Mickey says.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” Ian replies, turning on his heels for another sprint.

“I’m starting to regret healing you,” he mutters, burrowing his head in his jacket as much as he can. The cold is biting. Especially at the exposed skin around his neck.

“By the way, I was thinking-”

“Don’t,” Mickey cuts him off. He knows Ian is like a dog with a bone right now. He won’t let this new discovery go and will pour all his attention toward it.

“What do you think the limitations are? I mean we’re pretty sure you didn’t heal my bipolar, but you’re definitely keeping it in check. You can heal broken bones and superficial injuries. What about burns? Cuts? Open fractures? Poison? Diseases? What about the common cold?”

Mickey narrows his eyes at him and when he arrives in front of him to tap him again, he grabs the guy by his jacket collar.

“If you ever so much as stub your toe on purpose for one of your little experiments, I will never touch you again,” Mickey says menacingly.

“Not even-”

“No! Are we absolutely clear on this?” Mickey asks, yanking on the collar.

Ian’s disappointed look turns into a little smile after a few seconds and he nods, slipping free from Mickey’s grip to continue his sprints. Seriously, this guy can be so single-mindedly focused on something, it’s scary to leave him alone, Mickey thinks.

“We should still investigate further. I want to keep trying. I haven’t lost all hope yet that maybe I’ll be able to do it one day as well,” Ian says, panting harshly. “By the way, you in pain? Want me to take care of your nose again?”

“For the fiftieth time, stop asking me every ten minutes. No, still no pain. And by the way it’s pretty hard to feel anything when you’re currently freezing to death.”

Ian stops in front of him, smiling happily.

“I’m actually getting real hot,” he replies and pulls on his scarf. He throws it around Mickey’s neck and then casually ties it once. “You can return it later together with my varsity jacket,” he says, grinning and then hops away to continue.

“Don’t be shocked when somebody strangles you with it beforehand,” Mickey replies peeved.

“By the way, Fiona wants you to come over on Thursday for dinner,” Ian says, ignoring any death threats, as per usual.

“Thursday? That’s Thanksgiving,” Mickey replies.

“Duh,” Ian merely says, tapping his starting point.

Although he’s practically stayed over most days for the past couple of months, he thinks Thanksgiving is not really a day he should come over. Thanksgiving is for family.

“Nah, thanks, you guys do your thing,” Mickey says.

Ian finally seems to come to a stop in his mad workout session, trotting slowly toward Mickey.

“The employees get free turkey from the store. Fiona is going to take advantage and make a whole feast. Come,” Ian says, trying to catch his breath.

“I got errands to run,” Mickey replies, scratching his temple.

“On Thanksgiving?” Ian asks dubiously.

“Crime doesn’t take a break,” Mickey merely retorts.

“Okay, when you’re all done with whatever imaginary errands you need to run-” Ian says and Mickey glares at him in response, “come over. We’ll save you a plate.”

They hear the bell ring in the distance, letting them know their free period is over. Ian walks ahead, starts running toward the ledge, and leaps from it to the fence opposite, climbing down from there like the G.I. Joe that he is.

“See if you can bounce back from a broken neck!” Mickey shouts down and rolls his eyes when Ian just grins and challenges him to a race back to the main building.

LT ->\------ ♡ ------<\- LT

It has occurred to Mickey that he’s been spending an abnormal amount of time at the Gallagher’s. Practically all his free time between going to school and sleeping at night he spends with Ian at his house. Where in the beginning it had been just 3-4 evenings after school, it gradually turned into every night after school, and soon after even his entire weekends. It happened so naturally that Mickey never really stopped to think how odd it actually is. Who spends the entire day, from first period in the morning in school until midnight when it’s time to head home, with one and the same person, _every day_? He’s been so consumed with Ian Gallagher, that his entire life has started revolving around the guy.

Terry and his brothers are going on a run today and he had made up a story of how he is busy today with other important stuff. He can’t even remember what he had said anymore. It’s not like he’s decided to join the Gallaghers yet. He’s been mulling it over for the past hour and that’s when he realized that he’s already spending far too much time with Ian. The thought of spending Thanksgiving with another family is a bit weird to Mickey. While his family was never much the united type, his mom loved holidays and usually tried to do something special on these days. She and Iggy made it a tradition to steal the turkey every year, trying to get a bigger and heavier turkey each time. Colin always got to get his favorite dessert: pumpkin pie – which he, Iggy, and Mandy used to tease him about relentlessly, because which kid actually likes pumpkin? He and Mandy always had to help cook, though he tried to get out off it most times by sneaking away when his mother was distracted. He never made it far though, his mom could be hella scary, finding and dragging him back from wherever he hid. Even Terry would usually be in a good mood. Would even fool around with them on occasion. Thanksgiving used to be his favorite day of the year.

Playing around with the wool in his hand, he stares distractedly up at the ceiling from where he is lying on his bed. He isn’t particularly nostalgic, he doesn’t really care for holidays, but this year makes him wonder. His family hasn’t spent holidays together doing anything special since his mom died, so usually he just gets some microwave dinner Thanksgiving edition, plops himself in front of the TV, and downs a couple of beers. Being invited by the Gallagher’s is a bit strange to him. The thought of celebrating the day again like he used to, just with a different family, seems odd. If he’s honest with himself, he’s really come to like that disaster family. Maybe everyone except for Lip. Mickey still considers him an asshole. But the dynamic in that house, as chaotic as it is, is hard not to get sucked in. It’s a home.

But it is somebody else’s home.

He fiddles around with the soft fabric, letting it randomly run back and forth between his fingers. The implications of joining the Gallagher’s on a day like this are, well quiet frankly Mickey doesn’t really know what they are. There’s just this apprehension he feels at the thought that he can’t quiet put into words. The thought of getting used to having something like the atmosphere of a home back in his life is a bit unsettling. His life has been pretty centered around himself for the past years. He’s kind of learned to live like that. Learned to deal with everything that comes with that kind of solitude. Being careless now by wanting to try something else out in his life seems treacherous. For some reason his thoughts circle back to the movie they watched in Biology, where a fox was kept in domesticity for too long, they couldn’t send it back into the wild anymore.

He lets the soft wool flop onto his face, sighing into it. He’s not much of a thinker, but for some reason he’s been spending too much time worrying about a simple invite. His instincts tell him not to go, whereas his belly keeps reminding him of the possibility to get to eat home cooked turkey. The decision should be simple. It would mean another day spend with Ian too. The guy who doesn’t seem to get sick of him. The guy who even told him he liked spending time with him. Ian has really turned his life upside down and in that notion he doesn’t even include what the bond did to them. It’s still hard for Mickey to wrap his mind around what effects they have on each other. If he keeps hanging out with the guy like this, he’ll never be able to detach himself without ripping parts of himself off. He’s already feeling too intense about everything that is Ian Gallagher.

He lifts the knitted wool and stares at it above him, furrowing his brows into a deep scowl. All strings in his life point to Ian Gallagher at the moment. He might as well stop fighting it.

Throwing his legs over the edge of his bed, he gets up, slips into his jacket, and wraps the woolen scarf around his neck. Time to eat some turkey.

When he yanks the front door open he finds himself face to face with Terry. A practically seething Terry.

“Mickey!” He yells and then grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him inside.

Taken by surprise, Mickey tries not to trip over his own feet as he is being pushed backward. He holds onto Terry’s hands for balance until he crashes into the wall behind him. His head harshly makes contact with it and absent-mindedly he realizes he’s heard the plaster crack in the process. He groans out in pain.

“The fuck…” He exhales.

“You know what I heard today?” Terry asks him, eyeing him furiously. Mickey squeezes his eyes shut for a second, pretty certain he knows what his father is talking about. “That my son gave away our turf to a black drug gangbanger! What the fuck did you do, Mickey?”

“Dad, calm down, I-” Mickey tries to appease, but Terry yanks him forward only to violently push him back against the wall again.

“What the fuck did you do, Mickey?!” He shouts, rattling him.

“I gave it to them. I gave them the school…” Mickey admits, anxiously watching Terry’s reaction.

Terry’s eyes widen in a mix of anger and incredulity. He punches Mickey so hard in the face, he gets knocked down on the floor.

“The fuck did you do that for?” Terry asks incredulously.

“Sorry, I- I had to do it,” Mickey says, still reeling from the punch.

“Why?” Terry asks and leans down, grabbing him by the back of his jacket collar. Mickey swallows as he stares into his father’s fury. When Terry rattles him, asking him again, he clenches his mouth shut and looks away. “You little piece of shit!”

Terry punches him again and then a second time and suddenly it’s raining punch after punch.

“Fuck…” He groans as he spits out blood to the side after being shoved to the floor.

“A Milkovich just handing over turf to those black fuckers? Tell me why!” Terry says, kicking him.

That kick went right to his kidney and Mickey collapses into himself, crying out as he holds the battered side.

“I’m sorry, okay… I’m sorry, Dad…” He replies and holds out his hand, trying to get him to stop.

“What the hell is going on with you lately?” Terry sneers in bewilderment. “You are gone all day long doing the fuck it is you do. You make up some excuses whenever your brothers and I go on a run. You stopped pushing drugs. And now I hear you gave away our turf?! What the fuck is up with you, Mickey?”

When Mickey keeps silent, he knows he’s just tossing oil into the fire, but there is no way he is telling him the truth.

Terry bristles and then stomps to the other side of the living room. Mickey knows he’s in deep shit when his dad grabs their baseball bat and slowly steps closer. Mickey scrambles away, but Terry grabs one of his legs and just drags him back.

“If you don’t want to talk, I will. And you can tell me when I’m hitting,” Terry says, bringing the bat down on his side, “the mark.”

Mickey cries out, coughing badly through the pain.

“P-Please don’t…” He says even though he knows it’s pointless.

“I’ve heard that you made a deal with Daryl, is that true?” Terry asks and Mickey breathes harshly, bracing himself for what’s coming when he doesn’t answer. The next blow goes to his back and it knocks the air out of his lungs. “Apparently you exchanged the turf. Is that right?” He continues and lets the bat connect with his hip when Mickey keeps quiet.

“Fuck!” Mickey coughs out, hissing through the pain.The hit shoves him down the hall and Mickey uses it to get more distance between him and his dad by crawling further away, but he already hears Terry following and soon he’s pushed onto his back again.

“And from what I heard it was to keep somebody out from juvie?” He says incredulously and then swings the bat against his chest. Mickey coughs, wrapping his arms around his ribs. The pain is so bad he is getting black spots in his vision. He begs him again to stop, but his father just continues with the interrogation. “Who was it?”

“Dad, please…” He breathes heavily as he’s lying on his back, watching as his dad steps closer. The bat comes down again and Mickey tries to protect the sensitive areas of his body. It connects with his lower arm and Mickey cries out as he cradles it to his chest, trying to breathe through the pain.

“Who was it?!” Terry repeats and kicks him, so he’s on his back again.

Mickey looks up, sees Terry angrily towering over him, but even the fear of the next blow doesn’t get Mickey to talk. He narrowly avoids getting hit in the head. Instead the bat connects with his shoulder on such a bad angle, it dislocates. Mickey screams.

He’s getting dizzy. He can hardly breathe around his aching ribs and the blinding pain from his dislocated shoulder. The fear really settles in Mickey now. He can’t remember if he’s ever been beaten this badly by Terry before. He’s afraid he’s really not going to stop. He knows the reason why Terry is this furious has more to do with him refusing to talk than his actual transgression. But he can never give him the name. Once he knows he’s given up the turf for the Gallaghers, it will at the very least bring his attention to them. In his line of sight he sees the scarf half lying on the ground, sees drops of his own blood soaked into the wool. After what happened four years ago he can’t let anybody he cares about come into the vicinity of his dad. Thinking of the Gallaghers and looking at his dad now standing above him, he can’t ever let those two worlds meet.

“What the fuck can be so important for you to protect that you would turn on your own family?” Terry barks out incredulously.

And it sounds wrong to Mickey. The word family shouldn’t sound like that. When he thinks of family he sees the Gallghers sitting around the kitchen table, bickering and laughing, caring for each other. He sees Fiona put a pan of fried vegetables on the table and makes Carl eat it through his complaints. He sees Liam sitting on Debbie’s lap, drinking from his dino cup. He sees Lip ruffle through Ian’s hair and he sees Ian laughing in response.

When Terry looks at him, expecting an answer, Mickey breathes as deeply as his ribs allow and braces himself. He meets Terry’s eyes and doesn’t look away as he keeps quiet. The last thing he sees is Terry clenching his teeth and swinging the bat, knocking him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking. I want to answer your most pressing question: Did Ian go all sweaty to class after running the suicides on that roof? No, Ian came prepared. They had P.E. afterward and he made sure to shower and switch into a change of clothes he brought along.
> 
> If you're wondering about how Mickey is doing, well, I am afraid you will have to wait until the next chapter to find out.
> 
> If you're feeling it, please leave some love! And if you feel like talking, you can always hit me up on tumblr: https://annansmith.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing Mickey notices when he comes to is the distinct smell of burned plastic. His brain tries to recall where he knows that familiar smell from, but his mind is so hazy, he can’t hold any coherent thoughts at the moment. That is partly, he is sure, because of, and that's the second thing he notices, the massive pain coming from all over his upper body. It’s everywhere. Everything fucking hurts.

Mickey cries out and tries to open his eyes. It takes a couple of attempts, but eventually he manages and sees the ugliest face he’s ever seen in front of his face.

He yelps startled and then groans when it rattles the giant bruise that is his body.

“I think he’s awake now!” The guy yells and his voice might as well have been a sledgehammer to his skull.

After blinking away his blurry vision, he recognizes the fat face in front of him. He’s seen it before. Twice actually.

“Hey, Iggy! Mick’s awake!” The guy’s brother shouts and Mickey cringes from the volume. He wants a gun, now, so he can end his misery.

“Lenny, for fuck’s sake, keep it the fuck down,” Mickey groans and holds his head. He has the worst headache of his life. His jaw radiates a constant nauseating ache, traveling all the way up and settling like hooks inside his brain. It’s like a nerve running to the back of his head that feels like a hot, scolding iron that is simultaneously under constant electrical current. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

The twins watch him as he tries to sit up, but ultimately Mickey decides that’s a bad idea and falls back into the sheets.

“Want some?” Kenny asks, holding out the jerky he’s been chewing on.

“What? No, I don’t want your fucking jerky…” Mickey retorts incredulously and gasps through the pain in his ribs.

“Doritos?” Lenny asks and holds out his bag of Doritos to Mickey.

Mickey is in hell. He died and is now in his own personalized hell with the nightmare twins. As torture goes this is definitely the worst anyone could have possibly thought of, Mickey is sure. Now he finally recalls from where he knows that smell. Lenny and Kenny like to set things on fire and inhale the fumes. Mickey has long suspected there must be a direct relation between that and their IQ.

“Where’s Iggy?” Mickey says, sure he heard his name before.

“Iggy!” The cousins yell and Mickey bites his tongue through the pounding waves of headache currently induced by their combined voices echoing through what looks like Kenny’s bed room.

“Yeah, I’m here. Mickey awake?” He hears Iggy’s voice come into the room.

“Iggy,” he says. Mickey exhales a sigh of relief. He can’t deal with the twins for a minute longer.

“Mickey, fuck, finally,” Iggy replies and sits down next to him on the bed. “Thought you’d never wake up.”

“Why am I here?” Mickey groans as he sees the cousins loudly smack on their snacks in front of him.

“You needed a place to crash while you recovered. Thought it’d be best, if you stayed clear of Dad for a bit. You wanna tell me what the fuck happened?”

Lenny crumbles the plastic bag noisily inside his fist and then he sees Kenny handing him a lighter. Mickey pulls Iggy down by his shirt and even though the movement jostles a multitude of his injuries, he bites through the pain.

“Get them the fuck out!” Mickey pants.

“Meatheads, out, now!” Iggy says and the twins simply shrug and leave.

Squeezing his eyes shut in relief, he lets his head fall back into the cushion.

“How long have I been out?” Mickey asks, eyes still closed. He tries to catalogue his injuries or at least tries to single in on the most pressing ones he needs to deal with. One of them is definitely his jaw; he can’t believe it isn’t broken given how much it hurts. His shoulder and arm comes next, he determines. Looking down he sees his left arm is in a sling, keeping his shoulder set. His lower arm is in bandages, but since it isn’t in a cast, he guesses he dodged a bullet and didn’t break it. Every breath he takes painfully jostles his ribs, making it one of the worst wounds he’s sustained. Next to all the other bruises he feels around his torso, he’d say his hip hurts the most, dubbing it the fourth pinnacle of agony currently wreaking havoc through his body.

“More than a day,” Iggy answers and reaches for the bottle of water next to the bed. “Think you can drink?”

Now that he sees the water, he notices how parched he is. He nods and Iggy helps him slowly sit up. He takes a few sips, before handing it back to Iggy.

“Saturday?” Mickey asks, judging by the early sun when he looks out the window.

“Yeah, you got beat up pretty bad,” Iggy says and pulls out a prescription bottle from his cargo pants. He hands two pills out to Mickey and Mickey washes them down with another sip of water. “What the fuck happened? I come home and see Dad storming out the house, fucking furious and he tells me to check you’re not dead. You were lying in the hall, completely knocked out. I was about to call the damn ambulance when you wouldn’t wake up. I asked Yuri to have a look at you instead and we dragged your ass to his place. Did you know he has a full functioning x-ray machine in the back of his apartment? You got lucky, dude, no broken bones.”

“Feelin’ real lucky here,” Mickey groans, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible in hopes it won’t agitate his ribs so much.

“What happened?” Iggy asks seriously.

Mickey swallows, remembering the events of that night.

“I made a deal with Daryl to keep the Gallagher kid out of juvie. I gave them the school,” Mickey explains, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Out of all fucking people you gave it to Daryl? You know what shit’s been going on between him and Pops on the streets,” Iggy hisses incredulously.

“Yeah… Terry was not happy…” Mickey replies and even though he’s only been awake for a few minutes, the pain is starting to get unbearable. It’s making him dizzy and nauseated. He wants to pass out badly.

“Why did you do something so stupid, stupid?” Iggy says.

“Don’t know…” He replies and blames the pain for what he lets slip next. “I’m in over my head, Iggy,” he admits quietly. He closes his eyes for a brief moment to breathe through the pain and his mind involuntarily drifts back to Thursday night. When he opens his eyes again to look at Iggy, he swallows, licking his lips once. “I thought he wouldn’t stop.”

Iggy knows what he means. Whenever Terry would beat them up when they were kids they learned to read the signs. Learned to know when his mood was terribly bad. Which times would end up in a short beating and which nights in a long, drawn out one. They learned to distinguish between minor incidents and the full blown out ones, where they would work to cause some kind of distraction to get Terry away from each other. Or the really terrifying ones where they’d silently agreed to just watch and keep their mouths shut, to not get involved, because getting involved in your brother’s beating would usually make it that much worse. They would just wait it out. Every beating would stop eventually after all.

Iggy brushes a hand over his face and lets his head fall as he stares at the ground.

“You need to keep away from him for a while. I’ll get you your things. Stay here until shit’s cooled down,” Iggy says.

“Not the meatheads…” Mickey whines, feeling the pain meds finally kicking in.

“I’ll tell them to stop lighting shit up in your room,” Iggy replies on a huff and apparently realizes that Mickey is drifting back into the land of unconscious. “You are one fucking troublemaker. Go sleep it off, shithead.”

LT ->\----- ♡ -----<\- LT

Mickey looks like shit personified. He’s got cuts and bruises all over his face, which at least pale in comparison to his absolute black jaw. The last hit with the bat had connected right below his chin, leaving his jaw terribly bruised. It looks certifiably gruesome. His torso is covered in a myriad of black and purple contusions. Turning in the mirror, he sees he’s got a couple on his back to match. And the bruise on his hip is giant, throbbing painfully with every step he takes. Gingerly, he slips his bad arm through the opening of his wife beater and then pulls it over his head. By the time he’s wearing his hoodie and put the sling back on, he is ringing for air, holding himself up on the sink with his good arm. He can barely keep himself upright and hasn’t been awake for more than two hours in succession since he’s got here. How is he going to make it through school? This day is gonna suck balls, he already knows.

Iggy had brought him his school stuff and a few changes of clothes. He’s promised to bring more over tomorrow along a much needed refill of his painkillers.

He curses the four flights of stairs he has to climb down, because the meatheads live in a building without elevator. When he’s finally made it to the car, he’s sweating and panting, ready to pass out on the backseat. The meatheads forgot his backpack upstairs, because of course they did, and so he actually takes the time waiting in the car to rest his eyes while Kenny goes and gets it. He must have dozed off, since he suddenly finds himself being rattled awake by Kenny in front of the school. Mickey grunts loudly in pain, shooting him his death glare when the guy remembers that Mickey’s actually terribly injured and apologizes for his rough treatment.

He throws his hood over his head and, snatching his backpack away from Kenny, he haphazardly drags it with him on his good arm into the school. He can’t believe he doesn’t even have the strength to heave it onto his shoulder. The moment he’s made it to the class room he lets himself collapse behind the first desk he can reach, not caring who’s usually sitting there.

“Mickey!” He hears from behind, recognizing that voice everywhere. He pulls the hood further down and burrows his chin into the scarf. “Mickey, where the fuck have you been? I tried calling you a hundred times- What happened?”

Ian gasps when he sits down next to him and sees Mickey’s face.

He really doesn’t want to do this right now. It’s already costing him all of his energy not to keel over.

“Later,” he simply says when the teacher comes in and starts the class.

Over the course of the double period, Ian keeps shooting him worried glances, trying to get Mickey to tell him what happened. Mickey shakes his head every time, telling him that he’d explain later. That he has no clue what they’ve covered today when class is over doesn’t come as a surprise to him. He’s been single-mindedly focused on dealing with the pain, trying to move as little as possible so as to not needlessly aggravate his injuries. He’s certain these were the longest ninety minutes of his life.

“Mickey, what’s going on? You look like you’re a minute away from passing out,” Ian says after they’ve been dismissed and takes Mickey’s backpack for him. “What happened to your face? What happened to your arm?”

“Rough holidays,” he says, trying to walk normally even though his hip is killing him.

Ian stops in front of him and nods to the side.

“In there, now,” he says and holds out the door to the boys toilets.

Mickey sighs and walks in. Ian actually tells the kid currently in there to fuck off and then jams the door shut after he’s left. He puts his hand on his back and pushes him to the nearest stall and Mickey can’t help but hiss from the contact.

“What the hell happened to you?” Ian asks and kicks the lid down, gesturing for Mickey to sit down on the toilet.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he gingerly sits down, breathing through the pain simply moving causes.

“Class starts in ten minutes,” Mickey points out, already dreading the way up to the second floor.

Ian kneels between his legs and looks up to Mickey, worriedly scrutinizing his battered face. He pulls the hood away and Mickey sighs, knowing he won’t get around talking about it now that Ian has a better look at it.

“Who did this?” Ian asks and carefully places his fingers on Mickey’s face.

Mickey shuts his eyes, relishing the relief Ian provides through the bond, even if taking the pain from these small bruises does little to ease his overall level of pain.

He must have spaced out for a moment, because Ian worriedly calls his name a few times.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m here…” Mickey replies, trying to focus on Ian in front of him.

“You’re burning up,” Ian says, feeling his face. “You need to rest.”

“Can’t miss school… ‘m fine…” He replies and he must have lost a little bit of balance, because he’s suddenly leaning against Ian’s shoulder.

“Yeah, okay, tough guy… You need a bed. Come on.”

Mickey exhales a sigh of relief when he feels the familiar sensation wash over his forehead, soothing his terrible headache. He burrows closer against it, sighing once more.

“Mickey?” He hears Ian say above him, though he has to admit he can’t quiet tell what’s up and what’s down anymore. He feels a hand on his cheek, soft and cool, and then hears his name again. “We need to get you out of here.”

“School…” He says, knowing in the back of his mind that this is somehow important.

“I’ll make sure you’re cleared to go home. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay…” He mumbles into warm skin.

“Mickey,” he hears that soft voice say again. Humming once, he lets him know he’s listening. He burrows his face closer into whatever wonderful thing it is that just eases all of his pain away. It also smells good he notes distractedly. “I’m gonna figure out a way to get you home somehow, but I’ll need to leave you alone for a bit. Are you gonna be okay?”

He feels the cool hand gently brush over his overheated skin.

“-an’t go home…” He says, remembering he’s not supposed to go home for the time being.

“What? Why not?”

He hears a gasps from above him and a second later he’s got that cool hand caressing his jaw. The reprieve is so immediate, Mickey actually startles and jerks into the body in front of him. The headache and the pain in his jaw are just suddenly gone and Mickey wants to sob in relief.

“Did Terry do this to you? Mickey? Come on, stay with me. Did Terry hurt you?”

He nods into warm skin.

“Can’t… go… ‘ome,” he thinks he repeats.

“It’s okay. We can go to my place. I need to leave you alone for a few minutes though to get a car.”

The soothing sensation on his forehead is gone and he feels himself being placed against the wall next to him.

“Mickey, look at me. Mick, come on, open your eyes.”

He focuses on the command and pries his eyes open to find Ian very close in front of his face.

“I’ll be back, okay? Wait here.”

“Not goin’ anywhere…” He huffs and sees Ian smiling.

“Be back in a bit!”

The hands leave his face and their connection breaks off and even though the pain doesn’t immediately return, he misses the soothing feeling.

Ian makes good on his promise and is quick to come back, though Mickey realizes he must have lost a little bit of time while he was waiting for him. Ian speaks to him, but Mickey can’t really focus enough on the words he’s saying. He feels his good arm being lifted and he cries out sharply as it jostles his ribs painfully. He sees the black dots dancing in his field of vision and slumps further into Ian.

“-the hell can I touch you that is not making you pass out immediately?” Ian says in frustration.

They walk through the empty hall to the nearest exit. It isn’t lost on him that Ian has been taking most of his weight, since Mickey can’t even remember half of the walk outside. Ian settles him into a car he doesn’t recognize and then puts his hand on Mickey’s jaw again. Mickey feels his breathing stutter from relief, when the pain that has just started to come back again numbs down again upon the touch.

“Something for the road,” he hears him say and Mickey hums gratefully.

LT ->\----- ♡ -----<\- LT

The first thing Mickey notices when he wakes up is a particularly familiar, pleasant smell. It’s coupled with the subtle scent of laundry detergent and Mickey just feels it soothing his hazy mind. The second thing he notices is the absence of most of his pain. It’s absolute bliss and he never wants to move from wherever he is currently lying. The _third_ thing he registers while waking up is something very slowly brushing back and forth under his chin, while something else is warmly resting on his chest. Both sensations accompanied by the familiar feeling Mickey’s bond with Ian creates. He slowly opens his eyes and finds himself staring up Ian’s chest. He blinks a few times until he realizes he must be lying on the Gallagher’s couch – his head resting on Ian’s lap. Ian is currently looking ahead, and Mickey assumes he’s watching TV based on the background noise coming from behind him, idly caressing his injured jaw. When he looks down he sees Ian’s other hand having slipped under the opening of his collar and is currently resting under his clothes and on his chest.

He freaks out.

Mickey jerks up and practically jumps to the other side of the couch, startling Ian.

“What the…” Mickey says, looking at Ian in bewilderment.

“Jesus Christ, Mickey! You were still like a corpse for hours and then you just spring into the land of the living like that?” Ian replies and mutes the TV.

“How the fuck did I end up at your place?” Mickey asks, jerking around to see if anybody else is in the house who might have seen them.

“Careful, Mickey!” Ian says and reaches for him. “Unlike you I can’t heal you. I can only take the pain. Don’t make things worse.”

He completely forgot about that. He looks down to take in his arm in the sling and settles down, but he still glances nervously around to see if maybe somebody overheard them.

“We alone?”

“Yeah, nobody’s home. It’s the middle of the day,” Ian replies.

That reminds Mickey of school. He remembers going there, but everything is a bit hazy and he can’t quite recall how he ended up at Ian’s.

“How am I here?” Mickey asks confused.

“You call me an idiot for running around on a busted foot, but you drag yourself to school beaten half to death and with a fever,” Ian replies, giving him that look that tells him exactly who he thinks is the idiot.

“Fever?”

“Yeah, you were delirious. Let me check if it’s gone down,” Ian says and reaches for his face. Mickey jerks his head away incredulously. Ian glares at him with that old familiar unimpressed look. “Oh, we’re not going through this again. Stop being difficult,” he says and grabs his face in both hands to feel his temperature.

“There’s thermometers for that!” Mickey replies and wants to shake Ian’s hands away, but the latter has already let go.

“Still a bit warm,” he says, referring to his temperature. “You know, you keep reminding me of that fox we saw in that documentary in school. It would bite and scratch its caretakers every time they would come close, but you know, Mickey, the fox would always come eat out of their hands by the end of its little fit.”

“What are you talking about?” Mickey asks absolutely bewildered.

“Whatever. More importantly, what happened?” Ian says seriously and points to his body in general.

“You saw,” Mickey states. Of course the guy is too nosy for his own good. He must have peeked while he was asleep.

“You mean that you’re black and blue everywhere? Yeah,” Ian replies quietly. “What happened to you?”

He’s not really interested in talking about the details of that night, but Ian is not going to let this go. Sighing, he scratches his stomach and, suddenly, notices how hungry he is.

“You got something to eat?” Mickey asks.

“You’re not getting out of talking to me about this,” Ian simply replies.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I can talk and eat. Haven’t eaten much more than a few doritos the past four days,” Mickey says. He was mostly asleep during the weekend and only ate a few of the twins’ snacks so he wouldn’t take his pain meds on an empty stomach. He is absolutely famished.

Ian scrutinizes him for a moment and seems to end up with the conclusion that Mickey does look a bit weak.

They make their way to the kitchen where Ian tells him to sit down and rest while he fixes him something to eat. He rummages around the freezer and finds something to put on a plate and in the microwave. Setting the timer, he grabs a couple of glasses of water and then walks around to the table to sit in front of Mickey, sliding a glass over to him.

Mickey sees his jacket and backpack sitting on one of the kitchen chairs and notices Ian’s scarf lying on top of it.

“Got blood on it,” Mickey says apologetically and then averts his eyes down to the table.

“Forget about the scarf,” Ian replies with furrowed brows. He looks at him, eyeing the bruises in his face and around his jaw. “You okay?” He asks softly.

Mickey stares back, his eyes flickering around for a bit before he nods.

“Yeah, you did your… whatever. I’m good,” he replies. “Thanks. For… everything. For getting me here and the pain thing.”

“I can really take your pain, huh?” Ian says, still astonished by that revelation.

“Yeah,” Mickey huffs, just as surprised by this as Ian.

“How long does it last?” Ian asks.

“Don’t know,” Mickey replies, shaking his head.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says with a sigh, not particularly looking forward to the pain coming back.

“Terry did this to you because of the deal you made for my brother, right?” Ian asks, staring at him.

Mickey exhales a long breath. He wants to brush his hand over his face when he halfway notices it is still in the sling. He carefully lets it down again, having to remind himself to be mindful of his injuries while he’s on Ian’s personal brand of Lidocaine.

“It was inevitable, really. I was not dealing at school anymore and he was already getting suspicious. The deal with Daryl might actually have been a blessing in disguise. At least now I don’t have to worry about what kind of excuses I need to feed him why I’ve dropped the business at school,” Mickey says, shrugging.

“He beat you half to death, Mickey. How is this a blessing?” Ian asks, but even though he’s angry his voice remains soft.

Letting his gaze wander around the room, he eventually settles looking at Ian and shrugs.

“Alternative would have been worse,” Mickey simply replies.

Ian looks at him, brows furrowed. In the end he just nods and looks down.

“What are you going to do now?” He asks.

“Avoid home for a while. Let him steam for a couple of weeks. He should have calmed down by then,” Mickey replies and drinks from his glass.

“You’re not serious? You can’t go back to your dad. He almost killed you!” Ian hisses outraged.

“Ian, it’s still my home,” Mickey replies huffing. “Besides, once Terry’s gotten the anger out of his system, he won’t bother me so quickly anymore.”

“I can’t believe you’re so nonchalant about this. He must have beaten you with a bag of bricks or something,” Ian says, shaking his head.

“Baseball bat, actually,” Mickey retorts with a shrug.

Ian isn’t happy about that little revelation at all and Mickey supposes he should have kept that little detail to himself. He tries to change the subject quickly, before Ian starts insisting he never return home.

“How did you drag my ass all the way here by the way?” Mickey asks, since that is still a mystery to him.

“Borrowed somebody’s car,” Ian replies and huffs out a laugh. “You won’t believe whose,” he says and Mickey raises his eyebrows curiously. “Principal Allen’s.”

“No fucking way,” Mickey retorts. “How the hell did you get him to give you his car?”

“I only went to see him to get him to allow you to go home. In the heat of the moment I might have ended up threatening his life.”

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Mickey asks bewildered.

“Because the only reason why you dragged yourself to school after having gotten the shit beaten out of you and why you refused to leave even while you were passing out, was because he is blackmailing you with your life,” Ian replies aggravated. “I got a bit carried away when I told him off…”

“Threatening to kill the guy?” Mickey huffs amused, he didn’t think Ian had it in him. “But, wait, that actually worked?”

“Yeah, he got real nervous and said he didn’t want any trouble and then just gave me the keys to his car,” Ian says, scratching the back of his neck, seemingly coming to the realization what a stupid idea it was to threaten his school’s principal with murder.

Mickey narrows his eyes at that. That doesn’t really sound like Principal Allen in his experience.

“Can’t believe that worked,” Mickey replies.

“You don’t think he’s gonna expel me, do you?” Ian says concerned.

“Nah, don’t think so, but he might just sign you up for the mock UN,” Mickey snorts derisively.

The microwave beeps to attention and Ian gets up to go get Mickey’s food.

“You know, you can always stay with us,” Ian says, carefully taking the heated plate out of the microwave. “You don’t have to stay with Terry.”

Mickey doesn’t really know how to even consider accepting such an offer coming from Ian. Besides it’s not like he doesn’t have a home. He can handle Terry.

“Thanks, but I’m okay,” Mickey replies.

“Just… know it’s an option, okay?” Ian says and sets the plate down in front of Mickey. When Mickey looks down to see what Ian heated up for him, he’s a bit overwhelmed with what he finds. “Our home is big enough for you to stay with us.”

“What’s this…” Mickey asks.

He bites his lip and keeps his eyes downcast. For the first time since Terry used that bat on him he feels like crying. When he sees the leftover Thanksgiving turkey, mashed potato, green beans, and gravy on his plate in front of him, something else inside him starts to ache.

“I told you we’d save you a plate.”

LT ->\----- ♡ -----<\- LT

Reheated or not it is so good he eats every last piece of it. Feeling the pain slowly creeping back, but remembering how Ian had taken his pain earlier, he makes sure not to let it show. He does not want a repeat of whatever that was before. Ian is getting far too comfortable manhandling him in any sorts of positions. When the pain is getting worse he makes up an excuse to go lie down in Ian’s bed for a bit, saying something about the twins blaring techno music throughout the night and him not having gotten any sleep. By the looks of it Ian isn’t entirely buying it and offers to take his pain again which Mickey just turns down, quickly heading up the stairs. He gingerly crawls into Ian’s twin bed and defaults to the sleep position that causes him the least discomfort. Breathing in the familiar scent, he slowly drifts off into sleep.

When he wakes up again, it is to somebody literally poking his bruises, _repeatedly._ He groans, sharply taking in a breath, and opens his eyes.

“You gotta be kidding me…” He mutters and he sees Gallagher Junior ramming his finger into one of the bruises on his side.

He quickly catches the offending finger in his hand and doesn’t let go. He groans and lets his head fall back into the pillow, trying to slowly shake the sleepy fog. Glancing out the window, he sees it has gotten dark already and when he listens to the noises in the house, he hears people downstairs moving around. Wondering how long he’s been asleep, he tries to sit up. He feels a bit woozy and holds his head. His headache is back to full force, his jaw feeding into it, boring this sharp ache to the back of his head. The skin feels a bit too warm to the touch and it makes him roll his eyes. So he’s back on that shit again, he thinks.

Apparently Liam thinks if he is not supposed to use his finger, then it’s okay to use his head and lazily nods it against Mickey’s injured hip. Mickey cries out, panting harshly.

“Really, kid?” He asks and sits up further so Liam is bumping against his leg instead. “I’m a bit fucked up at the moment and I think I deserve a break from your family. You mind finding a different corpse to torture?”

Liam just looks at him, his head angled so he looks upside down from his head resting on his thigh.

“No? I see you really are related to your brothers.”

When he tries to get up, Liam outright crawls on him and throws his weight on Mickey’s legs. Mickey grunts from the motion ripping through his currently delicate body. Okay, so he is not going anywhere, Mickey concedes. He looks out the hall if Ian’s nearby or anybody else for that matter, but they seem to be either in their rooms or downstairs. He sees a glass of water and a book with a post-it note on the dresser.

_Out to return the car.  
Stay in bed and drink some water. I think your fever might be coming back.  
If you’re bored, start _ _on your missed reading.  
_ _It gets real savage._ _L_ _ots of murder. Right up your alley._   
_\- Ian_

Mickey glares at the note. Ian must have touched him again while he was sleeping. How else would he know his temperature is running higher again? Since he’s seemingly allergic to thermometers, he must have put his hands on him again. He deduces it must have been quite a while ago since Ian did and left to bring the car back, seeing how his body is throbbing at full force.

He drinks the water and then puts the glass back on the dresser. When he looks down to Liam who is still lying over his legs, watching him lazily, he raises his eyebrow.

“Shouldn’t somebody be watching you?” Mickey asks, but the kid merely starts pulling on his hoodie in response. “What?”

“Do something,” Liam says, as if bored.

“Oh, excuse me, am I not entertaining enough for you right now?” Mickey replies, eyebrows raised. Liam just grabs his hood string and starts lazily pulling on it. “Okay, okay… How about I read to you? Will you stop fucking around?” Mickey says and grabs the book from the dresser. That seems to get Liam’s attention. The kid curiously looks up at him. “You mind getting off me?” Mickey asks expectantly, but Liam doesn’t react. He rolls his eyes and shuffles a little closer to the window so he can use the light coming from the street lamp outside to start reading.

Mickey comes to find the book is about a bunch of kids being stranded on an island after a plane crash and how they’re trying to survive all alone without adults. They all seem like idiots to him. The leader doesn’t know what he’s doing, the fat kid is smart but pathetically weak, and the wannabe hunter doesn’t even know how to stab a pig. They’re all doomed, Mickey can already tell.

“A speaking conch, what dweebs,” Mickey snorts and continues to read out loud for Liam. Liam seems to like it though. He watches him reading with rapt attention. And most importantly he isn’t antagonizing any of his injuries as he’s simply lying there and listening.

Somewhere in the middle of chapter three, Mickey starts to slow down. Reading out loud has become quite strenuous, his ribs aching every time he breathes too deeply. His jaw is not exactly appreciating the exercise either and Mickey starts to trail off, grunting from the overall pain and exhaustion. He glances down and sees Liam has fallen asleep on his legs anyway and so he earmarks the page he is currently on and throws the book to the side.

He notices Ian leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, watching him.

“How long have you been standing there for?” Mickey asks.

“Around the time the boys were fighting between shelter and food,” Ian says and steps into the room. He lifts Liam into his arms and carries him to his bed, covering him with his blanket. He turns back to Mickey. “How are you doing?”

“Dandy,” Mickey says and already sees Ian scrutinizing him closer. He quickly changes the topic. “What did Principal Allen say when you returned the car?”

Ian looks dejectedly down and sighs.

“Detention is extended until mid-terms. He says you’re welcome to join.”

“You know, I’m not really surprised,” Mickey replies, huffing.

“Me neither,” Ian responds dispirited as he steps toward the bed, hands in his pockets. “He’s a really odd man.”

“What’d he do this time?”

“Asked me a very personal question and when I answered, he laughed. Just laughed. He didn’t stop. At some point I just left his office, because he couldn’t snap out of it,” Ian says baffled by it all.

“What did he ask you?” Mickey asks.

“Not important. Anyway, I returned the car and he said you can stay at home until you’re better. But I am supposed to tell you that you will need to catch up on missed homework.”

“Naturally,” Mickey replies facetiously.

He shifts a little on the bed, his injured back aching from having leaned against the wall for so long.

“You’re in pain,” Ian points out exasperated. “Why do you have to be so difficult? You have an actual soulmate who can take your pain away and you insist on being stubborn. Let me help you.”

Mickey hushes him and nods toward the open door. Ian rolls his eyes and shuts it, before turning back to Mickey.

“I’m not your soulmate. Stop saying that. And I don’t need your help. I’m a-okay,” Mickey says annoyed.

“Oh, really?” Ian asks in obvious doubt.

He steps closer and Mickey is already eyeing him suspiciously, wondering what he is planning to do. Ian takes the book next to him and pointedly lets it drop to the floor beside the bed.

“Pick it up,” Ian says, crossing his arms.

“You dropped it, fuck do I have to get it?” Mickey replies defensively.

“Show me that you’re ‘a-okay’ and pick it up,” Ian says challengingly and nods toward the book.

Mickey glares at Ian, but the latter isn’t much impressed.

“Fine!” Mickey snaps annoyed and then shifts his legs over the bed, moving to the edge. The movement was supposed to look effortless, but by the look on Ian’s face Mickey didn’t quite hit the mark. The four pinnacles of agony are throbbing disjointedly, making Mickey bite his lip to stay quiet. He sees the book lying on the ground in front of his feet and he slowly reaches for it. Panting through the pain the position puts on his ribs, he grunts aggressively when he bends further down. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, taking a few short breaths in succession to psych himself up, and then with a long, loud groan he reaches the remaining inches down to take ahold of the book. Out of breath he holds it out proudly toward Ian.

“You cannot possibly believe this went your way,” Ian says incredulously.

“F you, Gallagher. I picked up the book, so shut up,” Mickey replies, swaying a little as he breathes through the pain.

“You are about to pass out again. Just lie down and let me help you,” Ian says, scoffing.

“No, keep your hands to yourself,” Mickey barks back.

“I still have my five minutes a day,” Ian replies stubbornly.

“Fine, you can do your exploring shit with my hand, like always,” he says and holds it out, shaking it around pointedly.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a new experiment,” Ian replies and steps toward the dresser.

“Oh, now my hand is not good enough anymore?” Mickey retorts, remembering the long haranguing Ian had put him through until he had relented and let Ian take custody of his hand during these sessions.

Ian grabs a thick red marker from the dresser and puts it between his teeth as he slips out of his hoodie. Mickey eyes him apprehensively and heaves himself backward on the bed when Ian moves toward him.

“What are you doing?” Mickey asks, swallowing.

Ian leaps onto the bed on his knees, immediately straddling his legs, and pushes him down. Mickey grunts out in pain.

“We are going to do a full study on all your different injuries and the duration of time you are pain free after I did my thing,” Ian says and puts the marker back into his mouth in order to use both hands to push Mickey’s clothes up and off his torso.

Mickey yelps. He actually yelps.

“Get off me, Gallagher! You bastard! I will kill you,” he growls and tries to buck Ian off him, but struggling upsets his injuries to the point it’s making him dizzy. Ian grabs his good arm and pins it above his head. Leaning down, he bites the cap off the marker and spits it to the side.

“Step 1: Mark subject’s pain zones,” Ian states and reaches down.

“Don’t you dare! I will end you, Gallagher!” He says and musters up all his remaining energy to try to get him off. They end up struggling, sniping, and growling at each other, until suddenly the door opens and Lip walks in. He stops abruptly upon seeing the two on the bed and stares wordlessly. Ian is still bent over Mickey, straddling him. He is pinning Mickey’s good arm above him on the mattress while Mickey has twisted beneath him to get his naked upper body away from Ian’s marker. Caught off guard, they both stare at Lip.

They all look at each other speechlessly for a moment. Mickey’s mouth opens and closes in an attempt to find the words to say something.

Lip awkwardly moves, shuffling around on the spot.

“Carry on.”

The door closes behind the guy and then it’s silent in the room. Ian and Mickey look at each other, still in that awkward position.

“Now I have to kill your brother too!” Mickey grunts out angrily. “Get off me!”

Ian sighs and tosses the marker on the floor. He uses a finger to push Mickey back down without much effort.

“He won’t say anything. Stop worrying about useless shit,” Ian says, looking down at him.

“I can’t have that guy walking around thinking…”

“Thinking what?” Ian asks, eyeing him expectantly. Mickey glares at him. “As I said, don’t worry about it,” Ian says, huffing once. “But if it makes you feel better, I can lock the door, so nobody walks in to see what I’m going to do to you next.”

Mickey snaps his eyes to Ian’s, anxiously looking at him. Ian lets him go and walks to the door, locking it. Mickey stares with wide, fearful eyes at Ian when he turns around.

“Don’t you come near me! I mean it! Don’t come closer! Stay away!” Mickey says as Ian walks back to the bed.

Mickey crawls away, turning his back on Ian, but it’s useless. The guy slips into the bed behind him and grabs him.

“Some people are too stubborn for their own good. Remember we could have done this the civil way, but you had to be difficult,” Ian says and pulls him against him as he sits up to lean against the wall. Under Mickey’s protest he manhandles him between his legs and pulls him against his chest.

“I will murder you! I will disembowel you! They will tell tales about the gruesome death of Ian Gallagher!” Mickey growls and tries to push away with all he’s got, which is admittedly not much at the moment. He already feels his remaining energy dwindle, leaving him breathless and dizzy.

Ian wraps his legs over Mickey’s to get him to stop kicking out. He pushes first his own and then Mickey’s clothes up and then presses Mickey against him, letting their naked skin touch and connect. Mickey can’t help but moan out from the sudden relief it brings. He’s distracted for a second and notices too late how Ian sneaks a hand down his pants to rest on Mickey’s giant bruise on his hip.

“ _Fuck…_ ” Mickey groans, closing his eyes and shakily places his hand on Ian’s to feebly push it away.

Ian’s other arm slides over his chest, underneath the sling resting on it, and hooks gently over his injured shoulder. In a mere period of seconds Ian has almost completely covered all the parts of his body that were tormenting him and now the pain is receding, simply by having Ian touch him. He pants, finally able to breathe without his aching ribs protesting and he sacks into Ian, all the energy drained from his body.

“This isn’t over…” Mickey threatens breathlessly.

“One more thing,” Ian says, ignoring him. Pulling him closer, Ian rests his cheek against Mickey’s and the bond trickles into place where they touch, alleviating the overwhelmingly sharp pain coming from his jaw injury.

“You have guts, Gallagher… Just you wait… Once I have the strength to get up, you better run for your life…” Mickey responds, his eyes slowly falling shut.

“You are so lucky to have a soulmate who cannot only take away all your pain, but is also able to deal with your temper.”

LT ->\----- ♡ -----<\- LT

“This is getting ridiculous, Mickey,” Ian whispers as they’re sitting in class. He’s currently turning around from his desk in front of Mickey to glare at him.

“I’m almost done. Chill your tits,” Mickey says as he copies notes from the History textbook.

“We can’t keep doing this! We can’t keep sharing a textbook throughout the class room. Just let me sit next to you already!” Ian replies exasperated.

“Five feet distance at all times, Gallagher. You know the rules,” Mickey responds brusquely as he keeps reading from the book and scribbling things down.

“How much longer are you going to insist on enforcing these stupid rules, Mickey? It’s been two weeks,” Ian says irritated. “And by the way, this isn’t five feet anyway,” he points out, gesturing to the distance between their desks.

“It’s been _one_ week. Stop being dramatic. And you can always sit at the empty desk across the room, if that’s what you want,” Mickey replies, still concentrating on his notes.

Ian has to turn around for a moment when the teacher looks their way. When she resumes her writing on the black board he turns back again.

“I can’t, because we share a textbook! Stop messing around already and let me sit next to you again,” Ian says frustrated.

“There. Done,” Mickey simply replies and hands him the book.

Glaring at him, Ian takes it and turns around.

“You know you can’t drag this out forever. We see each other every day,” Ian continues badgering him after class as they’re heading for lunch. To Ian’s annoyance Mickey is making sure Ian is keeping to the five feet rule while they are walking down the hall.

“Watch me,” Mickey retorts and slips through the cafeteria doors.

“I said I’m sorry. Will you stop carrying a grudge already?” He starts again after getting a salad. He wants to take the seat next to Mickey, but Mickey hooks his foot around the chair and keeps it pinned under the table. “Now you’re just being childish.”

Mickey merely smacks on his burger and ignores him.

“Mickey,” Ian calls out exasperated after school and grabs him by his shoulder.

“No touching! Rules!” Mickey barks back and shakes his shoulder free. “Don’t think I won’t tase you a second time.”

“Thank you by the way. That was real fun,” Ian replies with narrowed eyes.

Mickey followed through on his threats when Ian ignored his newly established rules and tried to touch him again. It was a low voltage taser, nothing crazy, but its use completely justified while he was too hurt to defend himself.

“You’re lucky you’re breathing,” Micky retorts and marches ahead.

“I can’t believe you’re this upset about me actually helping you,” Ian scoffs, following him.

“You attacked me!” He says aggravated.

“I made sure you weren’t in pain!” Ian repeats for the tenth time since the incident.

“Against my will!”

“So, I was just supposed to watch you suffer when I have the actual ability to take pain?” Ian asks incredulously.

“Rules! No talking about _it_!” Mickey replies exasperated.

“Your rules are dumb,” Ian simply retorts and follows Mickey down the street.

“My rules are the only reason I’m even tolerating you right now.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I was just looking out for you,” he says, trying to keep up with Mickey.

“I was fine.”

“You were not,” Ian says irritated.

“Drop it, Gallagher,” Mickey replies and turns toward the alley coming up.

“Where are you going?” Ian asks confused.

“Home?” Mickey says as if it were obvious. Though more precisely, he’s heading to the meathead’s, since he’s still crashing at their place.

“You’re not coming over?” Ian asks stunned and comes to a stop.

Mickey inhales silently and then turns around to face Ian. The one conclusion he’s drawn from the last couple of weeks is that he’s too involved with Ian and his family. To the point he’s not acting like himself anymore. Going and trading turf with the rival drug pushers? His dad was right to beat him up. Hanging on Ian’s every word? Having expectations? Needing the guy? He is so fucking confused right now. It has to stop being this intense for Mickey to start getting back to his old self again. Ian is not making him think straight. Everything about this guy is too consuming. He’s chipping away at Mickey and Mickey is terrified of what will happen if he keeps letting him.

“We don’t need to see each other every day for the study program. I see you tomorrow, okay?”

Ian seems utterly gutted. Mickey looks away.

“What are you so afraid of, Mickey?” Ian asks, angry now, and steps closer. Mickey immediately takes a step back. “Why can’t you accept us? That’s what it comes down to, right? You being afraid of this whole soulmates thing-”

“Don’t-”

“What we can do and how much deeper our connection runs-”

“Stop-”

“How real it is!”

“Let it go, damn it, Gallagher!” Mickey barks frustrated.

“Fine, see you whenever I guess,” Ian says angrily and leaves.

Mickey watches him walk away. He exhales miserably.

LT ->\----- ♡ -----<\- LT

He is still convinced that he is doing the right thing. Getting less involved means less trouble. He was almost beaten to death two weeks ago, because he stuck his nose into where it didn’t belong. The more time he spends at the Gallagher’s the more likely it is he will get roped into something else again. This family is an absolute real time drama shit show. Mickey is staying resolute. He won’t get involved anymore.

So when he passes Carl by on the front lawn and sees him huddled over a canister of gasoline, lighter in hand, he ignores it and instead makes his way inside.

When he settles down on the couch to start studying and sees Frank lying passed out in the living room corner with an almost empty gin bottle in his hands, he ignores it.

When Fiona and her newest boyfriend get into a loud fight, ending in the kitchen door slamming shut, he ignores it.

When Debbie comes crying down the stairs with bleach blond hair and fake eyelashes hanging from the corner of one eye, he ignores it.

When Shelly and Lacey try to kill Betsy again, he… well, he doesn’t ignore that. He’s not a monster.

But when two minutes later Carl comes storming in screaming _fire_ and holds a burning jacket in his hands, that he ignores.

Mickey Milkovich is no longer getting involved.

And Ian Gallagher is still giving him the cold shoulder.

He sighs as he looks over to Ian on the other side of the couch who is doing his homework. In silence. He can’t believe he misses his incessant chatter. Mickey sighs again and tries to concentrate on his own homework.

“Ian,” Lip says as he looks out the living room window. Ian hums in response, listening. “There are two military officers walking up to our curb.”

“What?” Ian asks and jumps up to have a look outside. “What the… They’re heading to our house.”

Mickey furrows his brows, wondering what the army is doing here.

“You think they’re here for you? You said they reviewed your application, right?” Lip says.

“Yeah, but they’re just dropping in like this?” Ian asks, getting nervous.

“Who?” Fiona asks, walking into the living room, wet jacket in hand.

“NCOs, here for Ian’s interview,” Lip replies.

“What?!” Debbie and Carl say, walking in behind Fiona right before they hear it knocking on the door.

Panicked, everyone looks around the mess that is the living room. They jump into action; Carl and Debbie grabbing the kids and ushering them upstairs, Lip cleaning up the various illegal items lying around, such as the bag of weed on the mantel and Carl’s selection of knives, Ian is making a last ditch effort to look presentable while shouting that he’s coming, and in the nick of time while Ian opens the door Fiona drapes a blanket over unconscious Frank, hiding him from view.

“Good afternoon, I’m Sergeant Hernandez. This is Sergeant Lee. We’re here to see Ian Gallagher for his West Point interview. May we come in?” One of the men introduces as he takes off his hat.

“Sir, I’m Ian Gallagher. Please step in,” Ian says saluting, standing ramrod straight.

“At ease, recruit,” Sergeant Hernandez replies pleased and enters the living room with his partner.

“I wasn’t aware you would be coming by today, sir,” Ian says.

“We find surprise visitations often provide us with a more authentic insight to our recruits. We apologize if this is a bad time.”

“No, sir, of course not.”

“Hi, thank you for coming over. I’m Ian’s sister, Fiona,” Fiona greets friendly, welcoming the two officers in. “Can I get you something while you talk with Ian? Coffee, tea?”

“That’s all right, mam. We shouldn’t take up too much of your time,” Sergeant Hernandez says.

“How about you take the kitchen to have your talk? My brother here has been looking forward to this day since he joined his ROTC program. You won’t find a better recruit,” Lip says, clapping Ian on his shoulder.

“You’re his brother? You’re not by any chance Phillip Gallagher?” Sergeant Lee replies curiously.

“Yes… I’m sorry, how do you know me?” Lip asks confused.

“We keep an eye out for any promising candidates to join our program. Your test scores were impressive. One of the best we’ve seen. Have you ever considered a career in the US Army?”

Mickey’s eyes wander to Ian. The guy keeps a straight face and listens quietly to the Sergeant and his brother talk.

“No…” Lip says, smiling strained. “Not for me. This is the guy you’re looking for though. Trust me, you won’t find anyone who’s more qualified: brave, skilled, smart, loyal. He’s the whole package!”

“What a ringing endorsement. Let’s talk more?” Sergeant Hernandez says and the three of them walk into the kitchen.

Fiona throws this _what the fuck_ gesture into the room when they’re alone, clearly thrown off guard by the army checking in unannounced. Lip has moved closer to the wall to listen to how the interview goes. Mickey is actually a bit nervous. He knows how important this is to Ian. His whole future is currently riding on the conversation going on between him and these two sergeants who have dropped in unexpectedly. This is it. Make or break. Looking at Fiona and Lip, they seem to feel much the same. The tension is practically palpable in the room.

Lip looks over and gives them a thumbs up, indicating it’s going well so far.

“This is everything Ian ever wanted. So much is riding on this,” Fiona says quietly to Mickey.

“I know. He’s been studying and working out like crazy for this over the last months,” Mickey replies, eyeing the wall to the kitchen, picturing Ian currently talking on the other side.

About ten minutes later Lip shuffles quickly to them when they hear the chairs scraping on the kitchen floor and they awkwardly stand together watching Ian and the NCOs walk back into the living room.

“We will be reviewing your application further, but you might already want to prepare for our physical aptitude test. You are a promising candidate,” Sergeant Hernandez says with a smile.

Mickey can practically see the excitement and elation in Ian’s eyes from across the room, even though the guy is as disciplined as ever and keeps his firm military posture.

“Thank you, I will, sir!”

“It’s always wonderful to see young men such as you eager to join the cause. It is an honor to serve your country. Don’t you forget that,” Sergeant Hernandez says pleased.

“Of course. I am ready to serve my country in any way I can,” Ian replies.

“What utter poppycock,” Mickey hears from behind him and everyone in the room turns to the voice currently coming from the weird moving, in blanket covered, shape lying next to the window. Frank struggles from the floor, bottle of gin still in hand.

“Not now!” Lip whispers to him and walks over to take him by his arm.

“’It is an honor to serve your country’,” he says mockingly, stumbling away from Lip. “That’s the same American bullshit indoctrination we have managed to pass on generation after generation. Brainwashing is what it is! Sending you to war… and making you believe that getting riddled by a hail of bullets is an honorable way to die… Conditioning soldiers to lay down their lives happily only so the government can fill their pockets… Despicable if you ask me…”

“Nobody asked you!” Fiona hisses and turns apologetically to the NCOs. “Don’t listen to what he’s saying. He’s a drunk.”

The two soldiers eye Frank unhappily. Especially Sergeant Lee seems piqued by his little rant, having taking a step forward.

“Sir, you are?” Sergeant Hernandez asks calmly.

“He’s nobody. And he’s leaving,” Lip says and grabs Frank by his back collar and arm, pushing him forward in direction of the door.

“ _I_ am the father of the boy you’re trying to ship off to get killed by… warlords and rebel armies… For what? For a piece of melted metal pinned to your uniform… For military funeral honors… You don’t even have the decency to provide proper financial compensation for the grieving family! To us, who have to suffer the losses!” Frank accuses indignant, tapping his chest dramatically. He ends up stumbling to the ground when he tries to get out of Lip’s grip.

“This is most disrespectful to all our fellow brothers and sisters in combat who died protecting our country,” Sergeant Hernandez replies, the polite and friendly tone from a minute ago gone.

Mickey looks worriedly over to Ian who visibly doesn’t know what to do. Meanwhile Lip and Fiona try to get Frank off the floor, but the latter exhibits a pathetic display of drunken resistance, flailing uncoordinated around him.

“Disrespectful is the government you got maimed for abandoning you to… live on the streets… to get treated like pariahs by the very country… you lost your limbs for… Nobody gives a shit about war veterans! As soon as you’ve lost your usefulness… the government will just abandon you with pretty words and no sense of liability…”

“P-Please don’t listen to him,” Ian says flustered, but the outrage is visible on the two NCOs.

“Your son has made an honorable decision to apply to serve his country for the greater good, prepared to risk his life to protect the safety of our nation. To defend our people including you. You should show some respect,” Sergeant Hernandez says.

“The ‘greater good’ is a contrivance made up by people manipulating the simple-minded to do their bidding… Using fancy rhetoric to recruit the gullible… You guys stop at nothing to recruit these young and innocent boys and girls… They’re practically just kids you send off to die!” Frank slurs, being finally pulled to his feet by Lip and Fiona.

“Enough! You should be ashamed of yourself,” Sergeant Lee says.

“And by the way,” Frank continues, jerking away from the hold Lip and Fiona have on him. “You must be really desperate, if you’re recruiting the crazy now.”

The moment Frank says this it’s like an invisible shockwave hits the Gallaghers, including Mickey. He looks over to Ian who just released an involuntary breath, shocked and anxious by the events unfolding in front of him.

“Crazy?” Sergeant Hernandez asks, taking a step closer to Frank.

“The kid’s clinically bipolar. Just like his mother… Beautiful soul inside and out, but cuckoo on her best days… and outright insane on any other… Batshit crazy… Like climbing the top of the roof and thinking she’s a bird kinda crazy…”

Both sergeants turn around to Ian, waiting for an explanation.

“I-It’s not an issue. I have it under control! I’m absolutely fine!” Ian hurriedly says.

The two sergeants share a pointed look.

“We heard enough, I believe,” Sergeant Lee says and makes his way toward the door.

“Clearly you’re a young man with noble aspirations. We wish you all the best,” Sergeant Hernandez says, polite smile in place as he tabs Ian on his arm once.

“No, please!” Ian says, calling after them as they are leaving.

Mickey doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sound of the door closing and Ian flinching in reaction.

Fiona is pulling on her sleeves, anxiously watching Ian. Lip is breathing angrily, staring hatefully at Frank. Debbie and Carl are sitting devastated at the top of the stairs, having watched the debacle.

“Ian…” Fiona says hesitantly.

“You fucking piece of shit…” Lip says to Frank.

“What? I didn’t say anything that isn’t true. He _is_ crazy…” Frank says defensively.

Suddenly, Ian yells and charges ahead, tackling Frank to the ground. He grabs him by his collar and starts punching him over and over again. Frank is no match for Ian’s rage, his head lolling in time with the punches.

“Fuck,” Mickey exhales and he and Lip make their way to Ian to pull him away when Frank got knocked out by an especially vicious blow and Ian doesn’t stop hitting him. “Ian, that’s enough. Come on.”

Lip holds him back from behind whereas Mickey holds his fist, pushing him away while trying to get Ian to look at him.

“He ruined my life!” Ian cries out.

“I know…” Mickey says softly and lets the bond reach out where he holds onto Ian.

Ian looks startled to where Mickey holds him back and actively links with him through their connection. Getting angrier, he jerks away and shoves Mickey back. He looks to the ground where Frank lies unconscious and then around the room between his siblings and Mickey.

Breathing harshly, he jerks away again when Mickey takes a step forward and then storms out of the house.

“Ian!” Lip calls after him.

Fiona has burrowed half her face in her hands, shocked by Ian’s violent outburst, Debbie and Carl are still sitting speechlessly on the stairs, and Lip stares helplessly out the open front door.

“Fuck…” Mickey mutters.

LT ->\----- ♡ -----<\- LT

Brushing a hand over his face, Mickey sighs as he’s walking down the street. It’s brisk, almost icy tonight and he burrows into his jacket. Chicago has gotten cold and it’s not even Christmas yet. It’s a mystery to him what happens with his scarf and beanie every year. They vanish over the summer and by the time it’s winter he can never find them. He’s going to have to ask Iggy or Colin to let him borrow something to huddle into in this cold. He wouldn’t mind a pair of gloves either right about now. Sighing again, he can’t help remembering Ian storming out this afternoon wearing nothing but his hoodie and hopes the guy ran off to somewhere warm and sheltered and doesn’t currently roam around the cold streets without his coat. Thinking about what happened earlier, he finds it still hard to accept he was witness to Ian’s hopes and dreams being shattered like that. Between Terry and Frank Mickey can’t believe he got the better end of the deal. Ian has all these plans and aspirations. Has the will and confidence to see them through. He works harder than anybody else to make his dreams come true. And during all of this he is still happy and playful, helps out at home, cares about other people’s shit… Somebody like that didn’t deserve what happened today. And knowing how sensitive Ian is, he won’t be able to cope with the aftermath. He can’t even imagine how Ian could possibly bounce back from this and still be this happy-go-lucky kind of guy.

Mickey needs a drink. Not knowing where Ian is and how he is doing, remembering the Gallaghers worriedly sitting at home waiting for Ian to come back, he just wants to get a drink and clear his head. Turning down the next alley, he walks to the Alibi. Careful to check if his dad is currently in there, he loiters around the door and takes a glimpse inside when a patron exits. Deeming the coast clear, he heads inside and plops down on a seat at the bar. Kev is sitting off to the side, polishing glasses, since his leg is in a cast. His usual partner is tending the bar instead and she doesn’t want to serve him any booze until he shows her his fake ID, letting her know her ass is covered in case the cops show up, and that’s all she needed to see to ask him what he’d like to drink. He eyes the top-shelf whiskey, huffing to himself. Comparing himself to fine whiskey when he knows the best he can afford at the moment is the cheap, ordinary stuff that’s lying on the work countertop, it’s stupid. He nods to it and she pours him two fingers, placing the whiskey in front of him. Holding the glass out in front of him for a moment, he feels the plain distilled liquor invading his nostrils and then let’s the whiskey burn down the back of his throat.

The patrons go in and out throughout the evening and Mickey keeps an eye on the door just in case his dad walks in. While he’s fine now, he still has a few bruises that haven’t completely healed yet. From what Iggy and Colin have told him Terry seems to have calmed down somewhat, but it’s best to keep avoiding him for just a bit longer. But Mickey honestly doesn’t know how much longer he can stand staying with the meatheads. The smell of burnt plastic has forever soaked itself into his brain.

Sometime around his second glass the door opens and Mickey sees Frank walking in. Bruised and battered he holds a bottle of beer to his temple. Mickey has to actively turn back around as the sight of him makes him clench his teeth and gets his blood pumping.

He hears him talking to Tommy sitting at one of the tables behind him, trying to weasel his way into staying over at his house. When Tommy says no with the argument that the last time Frank stayed at his place he shat in his kitchen sink, Mickey has to shake his head in disgusted bewilderment. Apparently the layout of his home was very confusing to Frank. He ends up trying to get somebody else to let him stay with for a while, but everyone is smart enough to refuse him. When the bartender puts a beer in front of Frank and asks him why he can’t stay at his own place, Frank starts laying into his kids.

“Ungrateful little shits! That’s why… Things I do for them. Blood, sweat, tears… This is not how family treats each other,” he yells drunkenly and Mickey sucks his lips into an angry grimace as he listens.

The phone rings and whatever happened has Kev jump to his crutches, hobbling out the bar. Meanwhile Frank has sat down on the bar stool and is currently grumbling into his glass of beer.

“That red-headed sucker is the worst of them… What do I expect from my brother’s son…” He scoffs. “That’s how I got all these bruises. He hit me!” He yells around the room, though nobody is particularly paying attention to his little rant. Mickey’s grip on his glass is getting painful and he has to put it down, afraid the cheap glass will break inside his palm. “But I can’t touch him. No!” He mocks. “That is child abuse… I get reported.”

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and inhales a deep breath through his nose. When he doesn’t hear anything for a while, he dares to take a glimpse over to where Frank was sitting only to see him having walked behind the counter to use the phone.

“Operator, can you connect me with Child Welfare Services? Yes, hello. I would like to report a negligent situation. 2119 North-”

Mickey crashes the phone back in place and then shoves Frank away.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mickey asks furiously.

“Mickey?” Frank asks confused to see him here.

“Were you really about to call CPS on your own kids?” Mickey demands to know, getting in his face.

“I was assaulted in my own home! They’re all criminals…” He slurs outraged.

“Fucking unbelievable, you piece of shit,” Mickey says, shaking his head.

“What the drunken Gods is it to you, anyway? I see you loiterin’ around my house… walking around like the place is yours…” Frank huffs. “What? You the Milkovich watchdog now?”

Mickey clenches his teeth, curls his hand into a fist, and keeps thinking about his new mantra.

_Mickey Milkovich is no longer getting involved._

“Associating with criminal scum…” Frank says, shaking his head. “No wonder these kids have gone to shit…”

He headbutts the guy.

Frank falls into the bar, crying in pain and holding his bleeding nose. Mickey marches over, ignores the exasperated complaints from the bartender, and grips Frank by his collar.

“You know what? You’re right. Consider me your kids’ watchdog now. You ever pull shit like earlier again, I will get my AR-15 and blow your fucking head off. Understood?” He says, rattling him pointedly until Frank nods, relenting. He shoves him away one more time and then marches out of the bar.

Mickey Milkovich is getting the fuck back involved again.

LT ->\----- ♡ -----<\- LT

Shrugging into his jacket, he pulls it tight, burrowing his hands into his pockets. That piece of shit of a father trying to call CPS on the Gallaghers… Mickey is still fuming. Not like his dad hadn’t done this before as well when he was running drugs for a cartel for a year. But somehow Frank doing it to the Gallaghers is making him even angrier. Coming to a stop at the corner, frustrated and not particularly knowing where to go, he pulls out his cigarettes. He lights one and then notices his phone buzzing in his jacket pocket. When he looks at the display and sees Ian’s name on it, he quickly answers, holding the phone to his ear.

“Ian!”

“No… not Ian,” he hears Lip’s voice on the other end and he sighs disappointed. He forgot Ian and Lip share a phone.

“The fuck do you want?” Mickey barks.

“Have you heard from Ian?” Lip says.

“He hasn’t come home yet?” Mickey asks, pretty sure it must be almost midnight by now.

“No, I had hoped he would have ended up with you.”

He takes a drag from his cigarette and squeezes his eyes shut, scratching his temple.

“Haven’t seen him…” He says.

“Okay, if you hear from him, just tell him to come home. Fiona, Carl, and I have been looking for him around the neighborhood, but so far nothing. I’m heading to the Alibi next.”

“Don’t bother. He’s not there,” Mickey says.

“Fuck, okay. Seriously, I have no idea where else he could be. I had kinda hoped you would know, since you’ve been so annoyingly inseparable for the last months.”

Even though Lip can’t see it, he’s flipping him off through the phone.

“Yeah, fuck you too. I will go look for him. Don’t call me again until you have found him,” Mickey says and hangs up.

Taking a last drag from his cigarette, he snips it half-finished to the street. Now, where could Ian have gone?

Walking aimlessly around the neighborhood in the cold, he will never again make fun of the Irish girls who claim to be able to always feel where the other is. That ability would be useful right about now. He is reminded of the time where Ian had made him hide during one of their first little experiments. The time where Ian was searching for him all over the place. He finally gets how frustrating it is to walk around and having no clue where the other is.

Mickey sighs, looking around for any sign to where Ian could be. Somehow he’s walked around the neighborhood and has ended up near the school. Looking at the school gates now, he remembers the only time Ian ever found him was when Mickey was hiding on their roof. He feels silly even entertaining the thought that Ian might be up there, considering how cold it is, but since he has nothing else to go on, he decides he’s going to check it out. Luckily, the shed is far away enough from the main building that campus security would never make their rounds there. He climbs over the fence and walks the familiar path to the bleachers.

When he gets closer his heart skips a beat, seeing a shape standing on that roof. He starts running toward the shed and quickly recognizes it’s Ian walking on the ledge aimlessly. Mickey exhales relieved upon having finally found him, but quickly curses under his breath when he sees he’s still not wearing anything more than when he left home. How did the guy not freeze to death yet?

“Ian!”

He skids to a halt below Ian and sees him startle upon his arrival. Ian shuffles a bit to keep his balance on the ledge, his equilibrium weirdly askew. Mickey soon figures out why when he sees a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

“Go away,” Ian says annoyed, taking a sip from the bottle.

“Fuck, Ian… We’ve been looking all over for you,” Mickey says, eyeing him concerned. While the shed is not particularly high, Ian doesn’t really have a good track record when it comes to falling down places. With his luck he’ll end up breaking his neck if he takes a dive.

“Go away,” he says again, not looking at him. He’s swaying back and forth on his spot on the ledge and Mickey is getting nervous.

“Don’t move,” he says and walks around the shed to scale the wall with the help of the adjacent fence.

When he tries to come closer with the intention to fucking pull the guy away from that ledge, Ian throws his arm out to him, gesturing for him to stay away.

“Stop, don’t come closer…”

“Ian, stop with that shit and come down from there,” Mickey says exasperated and is about to take a step closer when Ian shakes his head, alongside his whole body, and sways dangerously backward.

“No,” he replies, getting his balance back and then laughs humorlessly. “Five feet rule.”

“Come on, cut it out! Let me help you down before you actually fall and crack your head open,” Mickey says and holds out his arm.

“Your rules, remember…” Ian merely says and takes another drag from the bottle.

Tonight seems to be a whiskey night, Mickey muses when he eyes the bottle unhappily.

“Forget the damn rules,” Mickey replies irritably.

“I don’t think I will,” Ian says, shuffling a little back and forth.

“Jesus, Ian, come the fuck down from there!” Mickey barks, stepping closer, but comes to an abrupt stop when Ian seems to reflexively jerk back, causing him to almost fall backwards. “Fuck, okay, just don’t move!”

He holds out his arms in an appeasing gesture and stops coming closer.

“Why are you here?” Ian asks annoyed and shivers from the cold.

“To bring you home. How long have you been out like this? It’s freezing, Ian,” Mickey says disapprovingly.

“’M not going home,” Ian replies and shivers again.

“If I give you my jacket, will you at least wear it up there? You’re going to die of exposure if you insist on staying outside in the cold,” Mickey says and is already shrugging off his jacket. Knowing the guy will need a little push to come around, he continues. “Consider it my varsity jacket. You can return it to me later.”

He throws the jacket on the ledge next to him, holding his hands up, indicating that he’s not asking for more at the moment. Begrudgingly, Ian leans down to pick it up, swaying with the motion a little.

“Careful!” Mickey says and then watches with bated breath how Ian puts the bottle down and slips into the jacket, praying the drunken idiot won’t lose his balance. When he managed to put the jacket on and not fall in the process, Mickey exhales a sigh of relief.

Ian picks the bottle back up and then drinks from it.

“Think you had enough, don’t you?” Mickey says and pointedly looks to the bottle of whiskey.

“Fuck off,” Ian simply replies and takes another sip.

“What’s the plan here, Ian? How long are you gonna stay up there?”

“As longs as I want to…” Ian slurs, rubbing at his eyes.

“And that is?” Mickey asks, crossing his arms, huddling into himself from the cold.

“When I don’t hate my life anymore?” Ian replies, huffing.

“Ian…”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say. What happened was awful and no words are going to change that.

“You were right, nothing good ever happens around here… I was so stupid…” He says laughing as he holds his head in his hand. Mickey looks at him, unable to say anything. “I should have known I would never be free of this…” Ian turns his head to Mickey, his eyes staring at him cold and jaded. “Fucked for life, remember?”

“Come on, let’s just go home, Ian,” Mickey says softly, finding it hard to see that look on his face.

“Even when I’m fine, I’ll forever be cursed by this diagnosis…”

“Ian…”

Mickey watches as Ian looks up into the starry night.

“I thought it could be different… After the summer I had I thought I was doomed, but then,” he says huffing. “Then I met you… And I was okay… I was feeling like myself again. Normal!” He says, laughing humorlessly. “It all seemed like it had just been a bad nightmare… I thought maybe I had been misdiagnosed! I thought it could go back to how things were before… I thought maybe… maybe I wasn’t doomed after all… I thought maybe all the things that seemed impossible after this summer could happen after all… I thought maybe I could have my life back! I thought it could be different from what I saw my future with this damn sickness would look like, Mickey…” He says, his hand covering his eyes as his head is turned toward the sky, lips pressed together as he sobs. “But I’m forever broken…”

“You know that’s not true, Ian,” Mickey replies, exhaling shakily.

“You saw it today! I can’t run from this. I will always be reduced to this!” He says, pointing to his head.

Speechlessly, Mickey looks at him, helpless to do anything but stare. Ian rubs at his eyes and sniffs, turning toward Mickey.

“You know why I wanted to believe in something as stupid as the concept of soulmates?” He says huffing. “I thought if the universe believed to give someone like me a soulmate, my life couldn’t possibly only amount to this, right?”

Closing his eyes, Mickey bites his lip, unable to say anything while he listens to Ian.

“I thought if fate actually chose me, my life had to matter. I thought it had to go beyond my sickness… And the more I got to know you, I thought to myself, ‘yeah, I see why it would be you’… My own South Side brand of soulmate,” he says, swaying while he drinks from the bottle of whiskey again. He laughs into the bottle. “But not even my own soulmate wants me…”

Mickey opens and closes his mouth, his eyes flitting over Ian.

“Please… just take my hand,” he says and holds it out for Ian.

“I want it to be real, Mickey…” He says, sniffing. “I want to matter… I want to be okay… I want to be not crazy!” He proclaims and the bottle slips out of his hand, falling and crashing to the ground in front of the shed. Ian sways dangerously close to the edge, shuffling a little bit to stay upright. When Mickey steps closer in reaction, he looks at him.

“I know what it sounds like to be wanting something as stupid as a soulmate. But I want it anyway… And I want it to be you… This feeling when we touch…” he says and then looks into Mickey’s eyes, shrugging helplessly. “I never felt more unbroken than when I’m with you…”

Mickey nods his head, his breathing stuttering. He holds out his hand again and looks at Ian.

“It’s okay, you can have it,” he says, looking at him earnestly. Ian raises an eyebrow, not understanding. “I’ll be your soulmate.”

Ian eyes him for a moment, but then averts his eyes to the ground.

“You don’t even believe in this shit, remember?”

“Naming it now doesn’t change what it is, right?” Mickey says, still holding his hand out. “If you want me as your soulmate, you can have me. Not exactly a prize, but if that’s what you want,” he says, shrugging.

“Don’t,” Ian replies, shaking his head, rubbing at his eyes.

“Ian, I don’t want to believe in destiny and the plans of the universe or whatever, but if you really think fate sent you me,” he says, huffing. “I’m okay being your… soulmate. If you really believe your life is better for it, I’ll be your soulmate, Ian.”

Ian looks at him with these cautiously hopeful eyes and Mickey nods.

Still holding out his arm, he jerks his hand.

“Just take my hand already.”

Hesitantly, Ian lifts his arm and reaches out to Mickey. When their cold fingers touch, the sensation tingles in place, connecting them undeniably in a way that Mickey knows means forever. He never wanted to acknowledge it, but deep down he’s known for a long time: Ian Gallagher is under his skin and he has forever imprinted his existence inside him. He glides his fingers further over Ian’s until his hand is inside his own and then he holds tight, spreading the bond throughout their entire bodies. All the way until they’ve reached point zero and he feels that incredibly soothing feeling hum from every part of his and Ian’s bodies. He looks up to Ian, who stares at their intertwined hands, and then tugs lightly. Ian meets his eyes, watching him silently.

“Better?” Mickey asks.

Ian nods, closing his eyes to relish in the feeling.

“Can I take you home now? It’s butt cold.”

Ian laughs softly and opens his eyes. He nods again and then moves to step down from the ledge when his seemingly frozen legs don’t seem to be cooperating and he slips and falls into Mickey. They come tumbling down onto the roof, Ian landing on top of him, _again_.

“At some point we gotta stop doing this,” Mickey groans out from the rough fall. He looks at Ian lying on top of him who is laughing quietly. He rolls his eyes and then starts laughing himself. “Why do I have the feeling that being your soulmate is gonna be a full-time job?”

“You didn’t let go,” Ian says, looking at their still entwined hands to the side. Mickey follows his line of sight. The bond still hums contently through their bodies.

“I guess not,” he simply replies.

“I want to go home now,” Ian says, resting his forehead against Mickey’s chest.

“Fucking finally,” Mickey replies and they both start laughing again. Mickey feels Ian’s laughter shaking his own body from where he is lying on him. Feels his body heat, comfortably blanketing him. He sighs and pats Ian’s cheek casually. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

LT ->\----- ♡ -----<\- LT

Mickey agreed to be someone’s soulmate. Has he mentioned how weird his life has gotten? Soulmate – not that he knows what that even means. But looking down at Ian, he doesn’t think it’s really going to matter if he understands or not. Whatever Ian’s version of soulmates is, Mickey’s got the feeling he will come around on that too. Ian has a way of pulling him out of his comfort zone. And keeping him there. And not letting him go. Case in point, he thinks when he looks down to where Ian has wrapped himself around his midsection, his head resting on his chest. They’re lying on Ian’s bed, Mickey being propped up halfway against the wall, a book in hand, and Ian sleeping on him, as if Mickey were his own personalized pillow. Ian has one arm snuck under his shirt at his back, their bond keeping them connected long after Ian had fallen asleep. It’s warm and, despite the weird angle he’s sitting at, it’s comfortable. He had started reading Lord of the Flies from where he had left off last time, when Ian didn’t want him to go yet after Mickey had brought him home. After staying out for so long, Ian was practically a shivering mess when they got back and when Mickey had agreed to stay, the still drunken idiot had clung to him to warm up.

He looks over to the bed across from them and the top bunk on the other side of the room, sees Liam and Carl still sleeping, same as they had when Ian and Mickey had come back in the middle of the night. The door had been open and the night lamp on the dresser had been on, seemingly as if Carl had tried to wait up. Mickey pulls his attention back to the next chapter, flipping the pages and holding the book back under the light to continue reading.

The kids on the island are currently in a state of alert as they believe they’ve seen the beast at the mountain top. Tensions are rising between the boys and the concept of the conch is losing acceptance the more time passes. It’s clear the situation is leading up to a boiling point and soon the different fractions will turn on each other. Where at first Mickey was looking forward for the inevitable to happen, knowing the human mind is inherently ruled by survival and when push comes to shove all fancy ideas of a peaceful unity will break readily, now he can’t seem to enjoy the thought of the imminent destruction that’s surely going to take place. He knows people are intrinsically bad. Selfish and viscous, if there’s something they want or people they hate. For some reason, Mickey’s currently just not really into reading this kind of stuff. Not in the mood to read further, he’s earmarking the page he’s at at the same time the door quietly opens and Lip walks in.

They stare at each other, Lip taking in the position he and Ian are in and Mickey swallowing and tensing in response. Slowly, Lip steps into the room. He takes a moment quietly watching them until he grabs the chair next to the bed and sits down backwards, letting his arms hang over the back rest.

Ian is completely oblivious to Mickey’s tension, soundly asleep. Mickey looks down and then back to Lip again.

“Don’t go getting stupid ideas to what this is,” Mickey says quietly, but instead of pushing Ian off, his arm comes down around Ian’s shoulder and his fingers grip into his hoodie. “He needs this right now…”

Lip seems to mull that over for a moment, having followed Mickey’s movement. He nods agreeably, fiddling around with his own hands.

“I realized that I owe a lot of people an apology,” Lip starts quietly. He looks awkwardly to Mickey. “Sorry, I might have unfairly judged you before.”

Eyeing Lip dubiously, Mickey raises his eyebrow.

“You’re right, there’s a whole lot of people you should be making amends to, but I ain’t fucking one of them,” Mickey replies.

“When you started coming over here, I thought it’s the last thing Ian needed after the summer he had. He had made a lot of terrible choices after getting diagnosed. Flushing his meds, hitting the drugs, sleeping around. Disappearing on us… He spent most of his summer with Monica on the streets or in drug dens. For some reason, thank fuck, he realized that staying with Monica wasn’t good for him and we got him back. He started taking his meds and we saw him become this shell of himself. He went to school, he went to work, and he took care of Liam and the others, but he was despondent and unresponsive,” Lip explains, inhaling in frustration, his gaze flitting aimlessly around. “Fiona was in over her head and I was too wrapped up in my own shit to help him.”

Lip cards a hand through his locks, his eyes wandering slowly back to Mickey. Mickey doesn’t really know why Lip is telling him all this. He doesn’t really have a relationship with the guy and the only one he cares hearing about this is from Ian himself.

“When he started bringing you around the house, I thought you were another of his terrible choices,” Lip tells him straight off and Mickey is utterly unimpressed. “What good could possibly come from having Mickey Milkovich around? But around the time I first heard him laughing during one of your study sessions, I kinda noticed how he had seemingly reverted to his old self back in the time he spent with you. He was this happy Ian again,” he states puzzled. His eyes wander to Ian’s sleeping form, the look on his face becoming pensive. “And then I thought you being here was even worse.”

Mickey raises his eyebrow, narrowing his eyes at Lip. Lip meets his eyes seriously.

“For every high there comes a low. It’s how this thing works. We’ve seen it a hundred times with Monica. She seems fine for a time. Is happy. Pays attention to us. Wants to be a mom again. Until she reaches the tipping point and the other shoe drops and suddenly she couldn’t get out of her bed again, she’s sold our stuff, went on a drug bender, or… up and vanished again,” he says and looks at Mickey pointedly. “We were all watching Ian, anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop. The more time he spent with you, the higher his high went and we knew the bigger the fallout would be.”

Mickey looks down at Ian. Sees the red hair and peacefully sleeping profile of Ian’s face.

“I’ll deal with that, if the time comes.”

Staring at him, Lip nods after a moment.

“Yeah… I think you will,” Lip says and blows out a breath, rubbing the back of his head. “Anyway, I’m sorry for not giving you enough credit.”

Mickey eyes him. He doesn’t really care for Lip’s apology.

“Couldn’t give a shit,” he replies, which makes Lip huff out a laugh.

“Yeah… Didn’t think so,” he says in response and slowly gets up from the chair. Before he leaves he turns around one more time. “By the way, Ian gave me your Statistics test. Asked me if I could help tutor you. I had a look and you have the right idea at times. You just don’t know when to use which formulas. I can teach you. You should be able to pass your next test with a bit of extra studying.”

With that Lip leaves and closes the door behind him. A little confused, Mickey looks down at Ian. He exhales with a smile, rolling his eyes. So the little shit always had his back. If that’s what it means to have a soulmate, well, Mickey can deal with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romantic enough for you yet? For those who are interested in visualizing how Ian and Mickey were lying on the bed, check out my inspiration:  
> https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l5ppevleLi1qa6ybso1_500.jpg
> 
> Fun fact: Ian asked Liam to keep Mickey in bed while he was out. Isn't he cute?
> 
> As always please leave love! It's the fuel to any fanfic writer.
> 
> My tumblr: https://annansmith.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

Waking up to the quiet of the house, Mickey slowly opens his eyes. It’s bright and looking at the empty beds in the room, the open door, and deserted hallway, he guesses it must be long past morning. Thank fuck it’s Saturday, Mickey thinks. By the time Mickey had brought Ian back home it had already been two in the morning. Startling a little when he looks at the position he is in, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and exhales a sigh. He’s lying on his side in the small twin bed, Ian’s arm wrapped around him, and when he looks over his shoulder he sees Ian’s face pressed against his neck. In for a penny, in for a pound, Mickey thinks. He tries not to ruminate too much about the implications of the Gallaghers probably having seen them in this position.

He grabs Ian’s arm, twists it a little so he can read from Ian’s watch, and then extricates himself from his hold. It’s noon and given the quiet state of the house, Mickey assumes nobody is home. He goes about his business in the bathroom and then heads downstairs. The house really seems deserted as Mickey walks into the kitchen, hungry to make himself some breakfast. He checks the fridge and decides on scrambled eggs with toast and then goes to work. He puts on a new pot of coffee and by the time it has finished brewing the eggs are done. He can hear movement upstairs, hears a door closing, and shortly after the toilet flushing. He grabs two plates and two mugs from the cupboards and then divides the breakfast evenly.

“Good morning,” Ian says softly as he walks down the stairs. He looks a bit anxious, Mickey thinks as he watches him shuffle to the little breakfast bar and sit down.

“Morning,” he replies and puts the plates down on the counter. He grabs a glass, fills it with tap water, and then places it along one of the coffee mugs in front of Ian. Taking the other mug, he walks around the kitchen counter and plops down next to him.

“You’re still here,” Ian says, eyeing him a bit nervously.

“I guess so,” Mickey replies and starts on his eggs.

They mostly eat in silence with Ian throwing him side glances every minute or so. Mickey ignores it and instead focuses on his eggs and coffee. Something has changed and they both know it. Last night has shifted things into something Mickey wouldn’t be able to put into words even if he tried. And now it’s a bit awkward. Mickey isn’t the type to know how to deal with situations that are only remotely as complex as the one they’re currently in. And Ian seems to be, for some reason, too nervous to say anything.

Mickey eyes the barely touched plate in front of Ian, sees him holding his head, one hand wrapped loosely around the glass of water.

“Headache?” Mickey asks, raising his eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Ian answers and then glances to Mickey, only to avert his eyes immediately again.

Mickey slowly finishes chewing the bite in his mouth and swallows. He puts his fork down and then turns around to face Ian. He waves his hands, motioning toward himself.

“Come here,” he says, studiously trying to be as nonchalant as he can.

Ian’s eyes are flitting over Mickey. He’s grown a bit stiff. Mickey rolls his eyes and then shakes his hands again. Ian startles into acquiescence and then leans forward to Mickey. Placing one hand on the side of Ian’s face, around his temple and cheekbone, and the other one under his ear, thumbing his jaw, he lets the bond settle into place.

They share a few awkward looks until Ian averts his gaze down and starts fiddling around with the patch of open threads on Mickey’s pants in front of him. The bond pulsates involuntarily under Mickey’s ministrations when Mickey sees it. Feels his neck and cheeks heat. Silently, he exhales a shaky breath and fixes his line of sight to the kitchen window.

“Gone?” He asks after a few minutes, clearing his throat.

Ian looks up into his eyes for a moment, his face unreadable to Mickey.

“Not yet.”

Mickey furrows his brows at that, wondering how bad the headache is for it to take so long to heal. He slides his hand further through Ian’s hair to the back of his head, eyeing him concerned. Ian closes his eyes, letting his head fall a little.

“Let me know when it’s better…” Mickey says.

“Okay…” Ian hums quietly.

LT ->\---- ♡ ----<\- LT

After Ian has come to terms with what happened between them, Mickey sees the shift. Sees the moment when Ian’s thoughts start circling back to what happened when the NCOs had come by to determine his West Point application and Frank had ruined all chances of Ian having a future in the army. He sees him withdrawing into himself, sees him slowly detach, and then, with Lip’s words still ringing in his ears, sees him entering a depressive state. It’s been four days and Ian has practically not left his bed. Mickey comes by every day after school, sits down next to him, and doesn’t leave until late into the night. He talks even though he rarely gets any response. Mainly he talks about what they covered in class that day. Talks through his thought process when he does his homework. Talks about what he ate during lunch and how bored he is without Ian. He even tells him about the stuff they covered in the classes they don’t share, having found a few students who _agreed_ to give him a summary for Ian after the lessons.

Fiona and the others keep standing in the doorway, worriedly checking in on their brother. He would like to tell them that he’s got this, that he knows what he’s doing, but that would be a lie. Usually, it’s Ian steering their relationship. Mickey doesn’t really know how to take over. Not to mention that he has no idea how to help somebody who is depressed. He’s tried connecting with Ian in the beginning to see if he can repress the depression, but the latter refused to be touched. Forcing Mickey before might have been an effective method, but Mickey doesn’t think Ian would appreciate it and, therefore, wouldn’t help him in the long run, otherwise he would have tried that already.

When he arrives at the Gallagher’s on Friday and enters the boys room to see Ian still huddled up inside his blanket, facing the wall, he brushes his hands over his face. Carl looks from Ian to Mickey and then shakes his head when Mickey looks at him questioningly. He leaves them alone like he does every evening when Mickey comes back from school and Mickey tries his luck to get Ian out of bed. He lets out a silent sigh, enters the bedroom, and shuts the door behind him. Slipping out of his jacket and shoes, he takes his place next to Ian.

“Yo, sleepy face,” he greets cheerfully, even though he knows Ian isn’t sleeping.

He doesn’t get a reaction, but he didn’t think he would get one anyway. Going over his day, he falls into his routine of telling him what happened during class. He had already done most of his homework during detention, so there is not much he needs to do today. He falls into silence when he’s unsure of what to say next. Looking at Ian, he’s still not reacting to anything Mickey has tried.

“I suck at being your… soulmate, don’t I?”

Mickey still has a hard time even thinking the word soulmate, much less saying it out loud. But since it used to be Ian’s favorite topic, he thinks he ought to give talking about it a try.

“I saw on TV whackos all over the world have formed a sect, worshipping the night of the blackout. They even started a new calendar. Apparently blackout night is now day 0. Think if we tell them what happened to us, they’d treat us as gods? I could heal you and pretend to be the new Jesus,” Mickey says, chuckling. “Though you’ll have to give the- the ser-… those church speeches or what they’re called. People will listen to you. You’re better with words than I…”

Looking at the huddled shape and seeing no response, he averts his gaze down to his fiddling hands. He’s wearing the same pants as on the morning after he stayed over and he’s plucking the same open threads with which Ian had played.

“You usually tell me what you want. I don’t really know what to do here,” he says quietly. “Just… tell me what to do…”

He bites and sucks on his lip. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. When he lets his hands fall back on his lap, he stares at Ian, waiting hopelessly for him to react.

“Okay, I’m gonna head downstairs to grab something to eat. I’ll be back,” he says after too much time has passed that he can’t keep looking anymore. Hesitantly, he places his hand on Ian’s shoulder and squeezes once before heading down.

LT ->\---- ♡ ----<\- LT

Mickey spends most of Saturday reading silently the rest of his book next to Ian. He goes outside smoking a cigarette once in a while when the others take a turn talking to Ian, but mostly he stays beside him even if Ian isn’t acknowledging him. He avoids being too long alone with the Gallaghers, because he can’t stand to hear them talk about Ian behind his back and even worse when they start talking about his mother and the parallels between the two.

Finished with his book, he starts talking again. He tells Ian about having gone back home on Monday to feel out the situation and how Terry grunted once, but otherwise seemed amenable to him being back. And while Terry isn’t particularly talking to him, he is happy being back home again and not having to deal with the meatheads any longer. He tells Ian about how he’s going to go on a few runs with Iggy on the weekends from now on, seeing as how he hasn’t made any money since he gave up his turf and his respective buyers. He tells Ian about Colin having a girlfriend now and how he’s acting like a smitten idiot. He tells Ian how Mandy got assigned to the same community service detail as Carl and how they weirdly seem to get along. He tells Ian about how Fiona and her boyfriend have made up and now there’s a hundred cups lying around the house, because cup boyfriend is a weirdo and brings her flowers in cups. He tells Ian about how Debbie has dyed her hair back to red, but how fake it looks and how he liked her natural color better. He doesn’t tell Ian the reason is that it looked a lot more like Ian’s shade of red and that weirdly he really likes his red hair.

Falling into silence, he looks out the window into the nightly sky. Scratching his temple with his thumb, he lets his arm fall back, perched on his raised knee.

“I read that when dealing with depression you’re supposed to move around, do some exercising. You’re good at that. Run some suicides again. What do you think?” Mickey proposes. “You’re supposed to start out small though. Maybe go for a walk around the block? I could go with you.”

Ian doesn’t react and Mickey brushes his hand over his face.

“I read that people with depression sometimes actively fuel into the shit negativity. Like not eating, not talking, not getting out of bed… And that if you realize certain acts will make you feel like crap, you should try combating them. We can start out small?” He says, looking at his turned back. “How about you just turn around?”

When Ian is still not reacting, he gnaws on his lower lip, trying not to let Ian hear his frustration.

“Or you could just simply say hi… or my name,” Mickey says, huffing out a laugh.

It’s stupid he knows it, but he’s really out of his depth here. He doesn’t know what else to try. Looking out the window, he stays silent for a couple of minutes before turning back to Ian.

“I know how much West Point meant to you, man. I don’t know what to tell you to make it better,” he says. Biting his lip, he contemplates whether to continue. “I shouldn’t be telling you this… I always thought that… us hanging out together would end after graduation. For one, you wouldn’t need to study with me anymore, so there wouldn’t be a reason for us to hang out much. But since you would have gone off to West Point anyway, that would have been the end of it. I would have seen the last of you, right?” He says and then inhales a deep breath. “Never really liked the idea of West Point.”

He huffs, shaking his head. He knows he shouldn’t have said that, after all West Point had been Ian’s dream.

“This isn’t helping. Fuck, sorry,” he says and then almost startles when he sees Ian turning around.

Unable to take his eyes off Ian, he sees him staring up at him.

“Idiot,” is all he says. It’s not exactly his name, but he’ll take it.

Mickey can’t help but laugh. Ian stays silent, but he keeps facing Mickey and Mickey can’t help but feel like he’s won something. He holds out his arm, it hovering above Ian, and looks at him cautiously.

“Okay?”

Ian looks at him for a moment, apparently thinking about it. Eventually, he nods. His mouth twitching with the urge to smile, he clears his throat and then places his arm on Ian’s back. He rubs the spot where his hand lies gently and Ian shifts a little closer until his forehead is resting against his thigh. Mickey takes that as a sign that he’s allowed to continue and so he keeps stroking Ian’s back until the latter has fallen asleep. He might have continued a little while longer before he went home.

Ian seems to respond to Mickey’s new approach and Mickey manages to get him to drink and snack a little during the next day. He even gets him to verbally respond once in a while to some of Mickey’s questions and remarks. Like when he started talking about Christmas and he told him that in two separate incidents he once punched a Christmas caroler and got in turn once punched by a Christmas elf. Ian snorted in response and said he would have liked to see that. Or the time where he asked Ian what his favorite thing about Christmas was and the latter answered jokingly with eggnog.

Rubbing at Ian’s back, he steals himself as he looks down to Ian.

“We’re not quiet there yet with the whole taking a walk thing, but how about you take my hand?” Mickey asks carefully. He lifts his arm off Ian and then places it between them, his hand open in invitation. “You know it will make you feel better. All you gotta do is take it.”

Ian seems to revert back a bit to his withdrawn state at that. He averts his eyes and grabs the blanket tighter.

“It’s right there and you wouldn’t even need to get out of bed. You just put your hand on mine and I’ll do the rest,” he says.

When Ian still isn’t responding after a minute, Mickey is afraid he’s undone all of the progress they made today. He licks his lip once and tries to push a little further.

“It’s just linking our hands. We’ve done it a hundred times by now. Our five minutes a day, remember?” Mickey says.

Ian stares at Mickey’s open hand and Mickey lets him think about it. After five minutes have passed with nothing happening and neither of them saying anything, Mickey wonders if Ian is simply not ready yet. But then Ian lets go off his blanket and slowly slides his hand over the mattress. Hovering for a moment over Mickey’s hand, he eventually puts his hand in Mickey’s. Mickey hadn’t thought he would ever miss this sensation of connecting with Ian like this until now that he hasn’t done so in a week. He smiles and wraps his fingers around Ian’s hand, letting the bond spread. When he hits point zero, he sees Ian’s eyes flutter shut and he takes a moment to bathe in the feeling himself.

They stay like this, neither saying anything and with Mickey keeping the bond subtly humming. When his eyes start drooping, he looks down at Ian who has long fallen asleep. It’s gotten late and he should have long ago made his way home. But after looking at Ian’s sleeping face, he lifts their intertwined hands up and stares. Maybe it’s time to indulge Ian in one last experiment of his, Mickey thinks.

He turns off the little light on the dresser and then shuffles down, closing his eyes.

LT ->\---- ♡ ----<\- LT

He almost misses class. Had Ian not woken him up in time, he would have kept on sleeping, since he hadn’t set an alarm the night before. It takes him a moment to realize that Ian is supposed to be depressed when he sees him kneeling next to the bed and shaking him awake. When he gapes at him a bit too long, Ian smiles softly and tells him he’s feeling fine now.

Ian doesn’t go with him to school that day yet, saying he needs a bit longer until he’s ready to face the world. Mickey doesn’t really want to leave him alone while he’s in school, afraid Ian will relapse again, but Ian assures him he’s okay now.

He wasn’t just trying to make Ian feel better when he told him that school is boring without him. Time just seems to crawl at a snail’s pace without him there. Not to mention he has no one to kick him to attention when he is drifting off again. School has never sucked more without Ian by his side. It kind of makes him realize how he would have long given up, had he not been assigned to Ian’s study detail. He would have never made it past the first month, he is sure. He would have never gotten a fucking B in a test either. He still has a long way to go until graduation, but the insurmountable doesn’t seem quite so insurmountable anymore.

It’s the last week before Christmas and the teachers are assigning extra homework for the holidays left and right. What kind of monsters give extra homework over the holidays? When he tells Ian so after school, handing him the list of assignments, Ian laughs. The others look a bit shocked at the sound and stare across the kitchen table at Ian. The latter soon feels self-conscious and quietly continues eating and Mickey has to roll his eyes at Ian’s siblings. After dinner Ian asks Mickey if he wants to go on that walk he had promised and they take a tour around the neighborhood, smoking and chatting a bit, but mostly just walking in companionable silence. When they have circled back to the house, Mickey sees Ian gearing up to say something.

“Mickey, I wanted to-”

“Not necessary. Just, _please_ , come back to school. If I have to suffer one more lesson being talked to in Spanish without you translating what the weird hag is saying, I will shoot myself,” Mickey says and marches inside, holding the door open for Ian.

Ian stops in front of him for a moment, smiles, and says _okay_ before walking past him.

LT ->\---- ♡ ----<\- LT

Chicago seems ready for the holidays with Christmas songs playing everywhere and lights hanging on every window. Snow has been a constant for days now, the fluffy white piling up on the streets. Even the school has positioned a big Christmas tree at the entrance. Mickey burrows his hands into his jacket pockets and raises his shoulders to huddle into his collar. Ian wanted to take a walk around the school yard after they were done with lunch and before they have to split off to their respective classes. Mickey had told him that their roof is off-limits to Ian until the end of winter and he’s not tolerating any complaints. The guy is lucky he hadn’t gotten hypothermia from his little night visit. So instead they’re currently strolling along the path next to the bleachers. The janitor has put up some big Christmas ornaments on the back of the bleachers, visible to the main building and the school yard. Apparently the guy must really like Christmas. No way Mickey would have put in all that work for just a few weeks. It’s not like the kids going to this school will appreciate it.

“It’s pretty,” Ian says, looking at the ornaments.

Mickey stands corrected.

“I guess,” he responds and glances toward Ian when the latter keeps faintly bumping against his arm while walking.

“You like Christmas?” He asks.

“Dunno,” Mickey answers, shrugging. When Ian looks at him questioningly, he elaborates. “Haven’t really had a proper Christmas since I was a kid. Before Terry’s last prison visit it usually meant going on runs. Told you, crime doesn’t take a break and there’s a lot of money to be made during the holidays. While he was in the joint, I spent two Christmases in juvie. Not back to back before you ask. Small time stuff,” Mickey adds, having already seen Ian gear up to ask. “Last year I was mostly sleeping through the holidays.”

He shrugs again. Ian is still lightly brushing against him every few feet and Mickey keeps glancing at him.

“I think we managed five drama free Christmases since I was born. We’re trying to make it six this year,” Ian says.

Mickey laughs. That sounds like the Gallaghers.

“Can’t believe you even managed five,” he replies.

“We almost made it last year, if Grammy hadn’t showed up to set up her meth lab in the basement,” Ian says and when Mickey raises his eyebrow, knowing that that couldn’t have possibly been it, he continues. “Carl blew it up.”

“And there it is,” Mickey replies.

“We’re trying really hard this year,” Ian says, laughing. He then looks over to Mickey and bumps into him pointedly this time. “You should come.”

Mickey falls silent, averting his eyes to his snowy shoes. He remembers Thanksgiving. Remembers what a disaster it had been.

“I don’t know, man,” he replies and burrows deeper into his jacket.

“Think about it,” Ian says and they both circle back to the main building when the bell rings.

When they enter through the door, a minute to spare before the bell rings for the second time, they run into Ben, Principal Allen’s assistant.

“I was just about to make an announcement through the intercoms to call you to Principal Allen’s office. Good timing,” he says, looking at Mickey.

Both Ian and Mickey look at each other, not liking where this is headed at all.

“Why? I didn’t do anything!” Mickey says. He so does not want to deal with the guy. Nothing good ever comes after seeing Principal Allen.

“Just go, please,” Ben replies, sighing and goes ahead.

“I ain’t going!” Mickey tells Ian, already agitated.

“You can’t ignore him. That will make things just worse. Whatever he wants from you, just try to avoid getting us detention until the end of the school year, okay?” Ian says, while he’s walking ahead when the bell rings. “I’ll see you in Calculus!”

He shakes his head irritably and then marches to Principal Allen’s office. When he enters, he almost runs into the man. Principal Allen is standing right in front of his office door and when he sees Mickey, he grabs him by his arm and shuffles him inside.

“Right on time! We’re ready,” He says overly enthusiastically, talking to another man standing across from them in front of his desk.

Mickey has barely enough time to register he holds a camera when Principal Allen jerks him close, wraps one arm around his shoulder, grabs Mickey’s hand with the other, shaking it energetically, and tells him to smile. The stranger manages to take three shots before Mickey snaps out of his stupor.

“The fuck is this?” He asks and tries to jerk himself out of Principal Allen’s hold, but the latter is keeping him on an iron grip while the camera man continues to take his shots.

“We got it?” Principal Allen asks the man, ignoring Mickey.

After looking into his preview display, the man nods, giving him a thumbs up.

“Perfect!” Principal Allen exclaims and lets Mickey finally go. He moves over to his desk and grabs a stack of documents. “Sign this, Mickey.”

“What the fuck is this?” Mickey asks, utterly confused by the situation he walked in.

“Don’t worry about it. Just you releasing the rights to the pictures and allowing us to use your name,” Principal Allen says easily and hands him the papers and a pen.

“For what?” Mickey asks.

“What do you think? I need to start getting the funds ready for next year’s programs. With you being our Student Mentoring Student program flagship participant, I’m going to use you to funnel some money. By the way, congratulations on that B. Couldn’t be prouder,” he replies, walking over to the camera man to have a look at the pictures.

“Funds- Flagship part- What the hell are you talking about?” Mickey asks absolutely bewildered.

“In order to keep some of our programs alive, I need to grease the wheels a little. Politics, really… Showcasing the success of one of our programs will keep a number of others running. And fortunately you have surpassed all of my expectations. A few months in and you’ve already turned most of your Fs around. And if I couldn’t get any luckier your last name is Milkovich! That redemption tale practically writes itself,” he says, signing something Ben hands him while they’re talking.

“Redemption tale? What?” Mickey asks confused.

“Just sign it, Mickey,” Principal Allen says.

“The fuck I will. I’m not signing that,” Mickey replies incredulously. He doesn’t even understand what that is.

Principal Allen sighs and then slowly steps forward until he stops right in front of Mickey.

“Must we keep doing this? Okay, I’ll play my part,” he says wearily. “Can you believe the janitor found a broken whiskey bottle at the shed out back behind the baseball field? The same shed you and your best friend always like to climb on. So, I _know_ this is a coincidence, unless you want to tell me something?”

Mickey tries to come up with something to say, but the words keep getting stuck in his throat. Eventually, he exhales angrily and glares at Principal Allen.

“Someday I will burn this school to the ground,” he grumbles while signing, pushing the papers and pen back into Principal Allen’s hands.

“Always a pleasure, Mickey,” Principal Allen says smiling and dismisses him.

When he explains to Ian what has happened during Calculus, they both ponder about what Principal Allen is going to do. Though Ian is just happy that they managed to avoid getting more detention. Mickey has a bad feeling about all of this, but since it’s out of his hands, he tells himself he’s going to start worrying about this when the time comes.

Only the time comes much, much sooner than either of them expected.

During the next day it’s like half the school keeps staring at Mickey. They point at him and whisper. And some even dare to laugh until he glares at them. At first he thinks he’s imagining things, but it keeps happening and even Ian wonders what’s going on. Not understanding the reason for all this weirdness, Mickey has half the mind to beat somebody into talking, but Ian reminds him that they’ve just barely dodged more detention and they don’t need the trouble.

It’s when they arrive at Ian’s that they finally figure out what’s going on. Out of all people Lip had to tell him.

“That son of a bitch put me in the newspaper?!”

“Page 13: ’Problem Child Rising From The Gutter – Student Reformation Made Possible Through School Program’,” Lip reads the headline, his amusement hardly concealed.

“’Child’ is stretching it a little…” Ian comments casually next to him. As if that is the point, Mickey thinks aggravated.

“I will kill him!” Mickey says incredulously while he’s reading over the ridiculous article of how he found _structure_ and _guidance_ in the school’s study program which in turn has allowed him to _embrace the world of academics_.

“I especially liked how you ‘traded fist fights for textbooks, knives for pens, and a life of hard crime for a better future’,” Lip says.

“I think his quote is inspiring: ‘The more time I spent studying, the more answers I found to my own life and how I fit into it’,” Debbie chimes in from the couch.

“I never fucking said that!” Mickey retorts outraged, hitting the paper with the back of his hand.

“I like the picture. He looks cute,” Fiona says over his shoulder.

“I’m starting to believe you can’t deliver on your promise,” Carl says, clearly doubting his street cred after this article.

“That’s it! I’m getting my shotgun! I will kill that bastard! That son of a bi-”

“Okay, you need to calm down,” Ian says and holds him back from behind when Mickey was about to storm out.

“Let me go! I got a murder to plan! Enough is enough!” He yells, trying to fight Ian off him.

“You’re not going to kill him. Settle down, Mickey,” Ian replies exasperated, locking him inside his arms. “Besides, the article isn’t so bad.”

Mickey is so outraged that when he twists around to look at Ian, he headbutts him in the face by accident. Ian reels a little from the sudden impact, but he doesn’t let Mickey go.

“’Isn’t so bad’?! Are you kidding me?! He wrote that I hope to inspire other students to follow my example of how I reclaimed my self-worth by joining the program! Does that sound like me, Ian?!”

Ian actually snorts and laughs, accompanied by the other Gallaghers snickering. Mickey starts struggling again. With the help of Lip Ian drags him to the couch and sits him down.

“He’s just trying to get attention for the school. And you really are a poster child for this program,” Ian says, sitting down next to him.

“Literally,” Lip comments.

Mickey is in the middle of jumping back off the couch to hunt that bastard down, when Ian grabs him by the arm and pulls him back.

“I got one B! How is that newspaper worthy?!” Mickey asks incredulously.

“Wait till I’m done tutoring you. I’ll get you on the front page,” Lip says and gets up from the arm rest to leave.

Mickey can still hear him snickering as he walks upstairs.

“I think it’s great that you’re doing this,” Debbie says earnestly and gets up too.

Carl just shakes his head disappointedly as he leaves.

“I’m with Debbie on this. You should be proud of yourself,” Fiona says while walking to the kitchen, though her smile looks a bit too amused for Mickey’s hurt pride.

When he turns around to see that back-stabbing Ian snickering while reading the article, he leaps at the offending piece of paper and they end up wrestling for the better part of the next ten minutes.

LT ->\---- ♡ ----<\- LT

The mockery doesn’t end at the Gallaghers. Somehow his siblings got a hold of the newspaper article as well. Iggy hasn’t stopped laughing ever since, Colin thinks he wants to run for president and now keeps calling him so, and Mandy told him to pretend they don’t know each other in public. Who still reads the newspaper? Mickey can’t believe that somebody stumbled over it and now he’s South Side gossip. Ian still doesn’t let him kill Principal Allen for that outrageous stunt, but at this point Mickey believes landing on the front page for murder is the only way he can regain his credibility. It has to be especially gruesome, Mickey thinks. Maybe feeding the guy to the dogs will rehabilitate his reputation. He doesn’t know if Terry has seen the article. He’s tried avoiding him. Not only because he can’t face him after having landed in the newspaper for being a model student, but also because Terry keeps eyeing him whenever Mickey comes home late from the Gallagher’s. Terry always gives him this look and Mickey knows Terry is wondering where Mickey vanishes off to during the day. Since he hasn’t been helping out much with the usual family business, he knows Terry isn’t happy with him already. Terry knowing that he is hiding stuff from him is definitely not helping the situation. Mickey has to find a way to get back into his good graces soon.

“…and that’s how you make a molotov cocktail,” Mickey tells Carl as they are entering the house. After Carl’s failed attempt to make one himself that ended in him setting his jacket on fire, Mickey relented and finally started to teach the kid.

“Cool. Can we blow something up next?” Carl asks eagerly.

“How about we first learn how to crawl before we make shit explode?” Mickey replies and sees Carl rolling his eyes and head upstairs.

“You know what you’re doing is textbook overcompensation, right?” Ian says from his seat on the couch where he is currently reading to Liam. “Your pride is hurt because of that article and you’re trying to prove to everyone you’re still this tough guy from the block.”

“Say that again and I’ll cut your tongue out.”

“Right,” Ian replies, rolling his eyes.

Before he can walk over to plop down on the couch next to Ian, Fiona calls from the kitchen.

“Mickey, can you come help me for a sec?”

Questioningly, he looks at Ian who strangely ignores him.

“What’s up?” He asks lazily as he enters the room and immediately gets a cookie shoved into his face.

“Try this,” Fiona says frustrated, both hands on her hips.

Mickey tries not to cough, having been taken off-guard. He starts chewing and Fiona watches anxiously for his reaction. Mickey wonders what’s going on as he takes in the disaster the kitchen has turned into, different baking utensils, flour, sugar, chocolate, and other ingredients lying chaotically strewn around.

“Be honest, it’s too plain, right?” Fiona asks, rubbing her forehead in irritation. “I knew it! I should have just bought the store dough! Why did I think I could do this?”

Looking at her confused, Mickey finally swallows.

“It’s good. What’s gotten into you?”

Taking the tray and throwing it to the side, she grabs another bowl and it looks like she’s starting over again.

“Good is not good enough. I’m meeting Mike’s parents tonight. They’re like this creepy perfect family. Why did I think bringing homemade Christmas cookies would be a good idea?”

“Relax, they’re fine,” he says and when Fiona glares at him, he quickly corrects himself. “I mean they’re really good. Stop stressing yourself. Do you really think they’re gonna judge your cookies?”

“You’re right. They’re already going to judge me for sleeping with their son. Cookies are not going to cut it. Pie!” She says and reaches for the recipe book.

“Okay…” Mickey replies, eyebrows raised. “I’m just gonna go-”

“I almost forgot! Carl lost our only good carving knife. I need one for Christmas dinner. A Milkovich should have a decent selection of knives lying around, right? Could you bring one when you’re coming over?” She asks distractedly as she’s reading through the book and settling on a recipe.

“I guess I can stop by at home after school to get some before coming over tomorrow. But you know they’re more meant for cutting people, right?” Mickey says and eyes her concerned when she kicks the lower cabinet open that tends to stick.

“If it’s good enough for people, it’s good enough for my duck. Bring it. And what do you mean tomorrow after school? Just bring it on Saturday when you’re coming over,” she says, eyebrows furrowed.

Not looking at her, he scratches his temple.

“What?” She asks.

“He’s not coming,” he hears from behind him where Ian is walking into the kitchen with Liam in his arms.

“What does he mean you’re not coming?” Fiona asks surprised.

“I have stuff,” Mickey says quietly.

“What stuff?” Fiona asks, having pulled her attention fully to Mickey now.

“Sleeping, apparently,” Ian says from his seat on the breakfast bar, his voice clearly judging him.

Fiona stares at Mickey incredulously.

“Why are you not coming over for Christmas?”

“Who’s not coming over for Christmas?” Debbie asks as she is hopping down the stairs.

“Mickey,” Fiona says scandalized.

“What? Why is Mickey not coming?”

“Not coming to what?” Lip says, having just entered through the kitchen back door.

Mickey rolls his eyes. Now the whole family is involved in this conversation.

“Mickey is not coming over for Christmas,” Fiona relays unhappily.

“Does your family have big plans for Christmas? Is that why you’re not coming?” Debbie asks, leaning on the breakfast bar next to where Ian is sitting.

“No, they don’t,” Lip says and then awkwardly comes to a halt.

“How do you know we’re not doing anything?” Mickey asks, narrowing his eyes at him.

Lip seems to think about what to say for a moment.

“Yeah… Imma… See you later,” Lip says, pointing to upstairs, and jumps the stairs two at a time.

“So, why are you not coming again?” Debbie asks expectantly. Both she and Fiona staring at him, waiting for an answer.

Mickey opens his mouth, trying to figure out what to say. He looks at Ian who raises his eyebrows pointedly.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“You know that we consider you family, right?” Fiona says softly all of a sudden.

Mickey snaps his eyes up to her. She looks at him with these kind eyes and that gentle smile and Mickey knows even less now what to say.

“We want you here. All of us.”

He feels all eyes on him. He doesn’t know what to say to that either.

Awkwardly, he makes up an excuse about needing to leave and then heads out the front door. When he’s outside on the front porch steps, he releases a deep exhale and brushes his hands over his face. He needs a cigarette. Pulling out his pack of smokes, he lights one and then is about to climb down the porch steps to make his way home when he hears the front door open behind him.

“Got one for me too?” Ian asks and slowly comes to a stop next to him.

When Mickey hands him one, Ian goes to sit down on the porch step. Sighing silently, he sits down next to him.

“We have this tradition that we open our presents on Christmas Eve ever since Frank pissed under the tree the night before Christmas Day two years in a row. And since we’ve been in charge of our Christmases since forever, we thought we can make up our own rules. The Europeans do it, right? So why can’t a bunch of kids in Chicago do it too? We also play this game where we try to guess who wrapped our presents. Lip usually wins it, but it’s really fun,” Ian says, taking another drag from his cigarette. Casually, he slides closer to Mickey until Mickey can feel the body heat from Ian’s leg next to his. A hairsbreadth maybe in between.

Mickey looks at the weathered wooden step beneath him. Rubs his neck distractedly.

“With Carl narrowly avoiding juvie, Lip finally having come around, and, well, me…” Ian says, letting the sentence trail off. “We’re trying to make this year special.”

Exhaling, Mickey keeps his eyes on the splintered wood as he smokes. He’s listening, but he’s not really looking at Ian.

“It’s not going to be special, if you’re not there, Mickey,” Ian says, letting his leg rest against Mickey’s. “You’re family.”

When Mickey still doesn’t say anything, Ian leans in, his warm breath hitting Mickey’s ear when he whispers.

“Besides, I’m planning on getting shit drunk on eggnog; I need my soulmate to get ahead of the hangover,” he says and then lets his forehead brush gently against Mickey’s cheek for a lingering moment when he leans back, their bond connecting for just a moment in time in what might have been construed as an unintentional contact, but which Mickey knows was anything but.

Ian gets up, flicks away his cigarette, and then walks inside. Mickey’s eyes are closed as he feels his skin burn hot from the touch despite the brittle cold.

LT ->\---- ♡ ----<\- LT

He spends his Friday afternoon helping Iggy prepare for his Christmas run. Iggy, Colin, and Terry will be gone for a few days. He doesn’t offer to come along and Iggy doesn’t ask, but Mickey knows he should be helping. This is their family business and lately he hasn’t been a part of it. Has even sabotaged it when he made that deal with Daryl. He hasn’t been a good Milkovich, Mickey is aware. Not once has he resented his dad for that beat down. Mickey screwed up and he had it coming. He deliberately chose another family over his own. He’s been choosing the Gallaghers over and over in the past months and now they’re asking him to choose them again. During the past years he’s learned to be cautious and observant. He’s learned to pretend and to behave a certain way. And he’s learned to always trust his gut instinct to help him avoid letting other people know about parts of him he can never reveal. Now his gut is telling him that he’s about to make a big mistake. It’s telling him he’s not safe. That if he continues to choose the Gallaghers – if he continues to choose Ian – he will pay for it dearly. He sees the way Terry keeps looking at him. Feels his unusual silence oppressively looming over him. His gut is screaming.

When he walks out of his bedroom, he hears Terry, Iggy, and Colin work on a gun shipment at the kitchen table. Biting his lip, he walks wordlessly through the hall and leaves, studiously avoiding glancing over his shoulder.

As he’s walking down the streets in direction to the Gallagher’s, he feels the cold biting his skin. Looking up at the dark sky, he remembers the night of the blackout. How he had looked into the dark, feeling just as helpless as he does now. He wonders if he’ll ever be free of this feeling constricting his insides. Of this feeling of his lungs not getting enough air. Of this feeling of fearing your own existence. He wonders if there will ever be more to life than this.

He wonders if he’ll ever be free.

Brushing a hand over his face, he comes to a stop. He really doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. The only thing that he does know is that no matter what he’s doing, he can’t give up on Ian. For some reason he doesn’t want to imagine a life where he doesn’t have that weird ginger around. And the desire runs so confusingly deep, it’s defining his every action. He’s gravitating toward the guy consciously and unconsciously, it’s become impossible for him to resist. Even more so it’s become impossible to want to resist. How could one person have simply walked into his life one day and set roots that have grown to stay forever?

He’s just two streets away from the Gallagher’s. He’s cold and tired and he doesn’t want to be. So he forgets everything and let’s himself further gravitate. His legs twitch into motion until a loud horn is startling him to a stop. When he turns to look around to the street, he sees Terry in his car with the window rolled down.

“Dad?” He asks confused to see him here.

“Get in. You’re coming with me,” Terry says.

Mickey doesn’t understand what Terry is doing here. He and his brothers should be going on their run soon. When he looks at Terry inside the car, Mickey can’t read him. He has no idea what mood he’s in or what he’s thinking. He tries to think about an excuse to refuse him, but given how he’s still not in Terry’s good graces yet, he can’t make him angry.

“I thought you were going on that run,” Mickey says, trying to stall.

“Get the fuck in, Mickey. You and me we’re gonna handle something,” Terry replies, brooking no argument.

The reminder that they’re only two streets away from the Gallagher’s is burning at the back of Mickey’s mind. He doesn’t want him to know he was heading there. He doesn’t want Terry anywhere near them.

He nods and steps toward the car, getting in.

“What did you need help with?” Mickey asks, trying to act casual.

“Somebody is getting a beat down tonight,” he merely replies, not looking away from the street.

Terry asking for backup when confronting somebody isn’t unusual. If Iggy and Colin are busy preparing for their run later, it also makes sense why he would ask Mickey to come along instead. He keeps telling himself it’s fine even though his body decides to phantom ache at the mention of another beat down. He’ll just help him intimidate whoever it is Terry has a vendetta against and will then make himself scarce. It should be okay.

“Who’re we paying a visit?” He asks.

“Shut up, Mickey,” Terry grumbles and doesn’t acknowledge him further.

Mickey’s arm twitches, wanting to check his gun, when he remembers that he never brings it whenever he’s going over to the Gallagher’s. Nervously, he bites the inside of his cheek. There should be an extra gun in the glove compartment. He’ll have to see if he can sneak it on his person later when Terry isn’t paying attention.

Mickey is trying to stay relaxed even though his gut is telling him something isn’t right. He hopes it’s just paranoia. He’s so invested in his own thoughts that he notices very late in which part of town Terry has ended up.

“What are we doing here?” Mickey asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

Ignoring him, Terry keeps driving down a popular road in Boystown known for its raunchy clubs, male hookers, and drug dealers. There is no reason why Terry would ever come here. Mickey’s heart beats into overdrive and he swallows. Terry slows down, drives by the curb, and keeps a lookout for something. Or someone.

“He’ll do,” Terry says roughly and comes to a stop next to a dark haired twink in tight jeans and wearing only a thin sweater despite the cold, presumably to accentuate his lean body. He can’t be older than Mickey. Looks entirely too young to be on these parts of Chicago.

The kid steps up to the car when Terry rolls down Mickey’s passenger window.

“Dad, what are you doing? Why the fuck are we in Boystown?” He asks, laughing nervously.

Terry nods to the backseat and the kid gets into the car. While Terry drives off, the hooker immediately rattles off his services and respective prices and Mickey doesn’t understand what the fuck is going on.

“No penetration without condom,” the guy says. Mickey almost chokes on air.

“Shut your filthy trap!” Terry bellows and turns into an alley between a few abandoned commercial buildings.

He comes to a stop in front of a dead end and then puts the car into park. Reaching to the back of his waistband, he turns around and points his gun at the kid.

“Out,” Terry prompts.

“What the fuck… P-Please don’t hurt me!” The kid pleads scared.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Mickey asks, eyeing him and the gun nervously.

“P-Please, I don’t know who you are! Please just let me go!” The kid stutters.

“Get the fuck out!” Terry shouts and opens his own door to step outside.

The terrified kid scrambles out and when prompted walks to the front of the car where Terry is standing, his hands raised. Mickey quickly grabs the revolver from the glove compartment, hides it at the back of his waistband underneath his jacket, and then steps outside too. The light from the road illuminates the alley enough so that they can see in the dark, but not enough anybody else would spot them while walking past.

“I only have about sixty bucks… Take it, but please don’t hurt me,” the kid says and reaches with a shaking hand inside his pocket to pull out some crumbled bills.

“I don’t want your pole-smoking fag money!” Terry replies derisively.

“W-What do you want then?”

“Mickey!” Terry yells and nods for him to come over.

Eyeing the shaking kid and then his dad, he nervously walks over.

“What are we doing here, Dad? Who is this?”

“We’re going to teach this fag a little lesson what it means to be a man,” Terry says.

“You know this kid?” Mickey asks confused.

“No.”

“Then why-”

“Do I need a fucking reason to beat a queerbo?” Terry asks heatedly.

“No, I just… Why now? Why this guy?” Mickey asks, looking between the two.

“I’ve had it with these faggots. Parading around on the streets. Flashing their gay dicks in public! Those shit packers need the queer beaten out of them,” Terry barks disgusted.

The kid whimpers when he realizes this is a hate crime. He tries stepping backwards, but Terry aims his gun at him again.

“P-Please!” The kid says, holding his hands in front of him pleadingly.

“Dad, it’s… just a kid,” he says quietly and steps forward.

“You’re getting soft on a fag now?” Terry asks, looking at Mickey incredulously.

“No! ‘Course not…” Mickey replies hurriedly. “Just, think about parole, Dad. You’ve just been released. You really wanna get thrown back into the joint for beating a kid?”

“That’s why you’re here. You do it.”

His breath gets stuck in his throat. He glances quickly to the guy and then back to Terry again.

“What?”

“What’s the problem, Mickey? Get on it,” Terry barks impatiently.

“I…” Mickey says, swallowing.

“P-Please, you don’t have to do this…” He hears the kid plead behind him.

“Shut the fuck up!” Terry yells annoyed and then turns back to Mickey. “What are you still standing around for? Get over there and show him what happens when you shake your ass for a dick.”

“Come on, it’s Christmas…” Mickey tries weakly.

Terry narrows his eyes at him, stepping closer.

“Since when do you sympathize with the fags?” He spits out.

“I’m not! Fuck no! I’m just saying taking a random kid from the street and beating him up, why go to all that trouble?” Mickey says carefully.

“What is it with you lately, Mickey? I can hardly recognize you anymore. You were always the first one to jump into action. Never so much had to give you a reason. Now you can’t even take on one guy when I tell you to?” Terry replies incredulously, looking Mickey up and down.

“It’s just not worth it, Dad,” Mickey responds and sees Terry eyeing him angrily. The glare makes his hair stand on end. Inconspicuously, he puts his hand behind his back and under his jacket, wrapping his fingers around the revolver.

“I’m starting to think you make friends with these homos,” Terry says, looking at Mickey with suspicion. “That kid I did time for was gay too. Came around the house looking for you. Now why the fuck would a damn faggot come asking for you?”

“What? He wasn-”

“I recognized the boy. Was my buddy, Roy’s, stepkid. Until he saw him banging the neighbor’s son and Roy kicked him to the curb. Kid waited up one night for him outside of his work and then stabbed him enough to get thrown into juvie. That little fucker.”

“I didn’t know- I didn’t know he was gay…” Mickey says, shaking his head in denial.

“What the fuck was he doing at our house?” Terry asks angrily.

“I don’t know. It was just a guy from juvie… I-I owed him some money. I guess that’s why he came by- I didn’t know he was gay!” Mickey replies, trying not to cower under Terry’s glare.

Terry keeps staring at him and Mickey tries not to let on that he’s fucking terrified. His grip on the gun is almost painful. Terry steps closer, getting into Mickey’s face.

“Beat him,” Terry says. “Show me you’re still a Milkovich.”

Mickey keeps staring in those angry eyes. Feels caught in them. Paralyzed. Until Terry grabs him by his jacket and rattles him.

“We beat fags, Mickey! Fags get beaten! Now get the fuck over there and fuck him up!” He shouts into his face and then shoves him toward the kid.

Looking down at the ground, biting his tongue, he feels the cold sweat taking over his body. He takes a silent shaky breath and then looks up at his dad. He lets go of the grip on the gun at his back and then turns around to the kid.

“Please, you don’t have to do this!” The kid says and stumbles backward when Mickey approaches.

Mickey takes his first swing and gets him right in the face. When he’s bent over, he knees him in the guts and then pushes him to the ground. He kicks him a couple of times, ignores the crying and the pleading, and then straddles the guy. Grabbing him by his hoodie with one hand, he punches him with his other. The whimpers and the begging ring in his ears and settle so deeply inside of him, he can feel it echo in every cell of his body. Stifling the sound bubbling in his throat, he just hits harder. He sees the tears and he sees the blood and he wants to squeeze his eyes shut so badly. But Terry is standing right next to him and he can’t. Instead he keeps them painfully open as he stares below him, the images branding themselves into his mind like a hot iron burning through skin into his flesh. He wants to scream, but the phantom grip around his neck is finally getting tighter, stripping off his air supply. Before he can fall apart completely he lets the cold seep into him and Mickey starts to draw from that place inside him where he doesn’t feel. Where nothing matters and where nothing hurts. Where he doesn’t have to think and where he doesn’t have to care. Where he is deaf to the kid’s begging, numb to his hands pushing against him, and blind to his scared eyes. A place where he can keep punching and punching and punching. Where he keeps punching until he feels a hand grabbing him by his raised arm, pulling him back.

“Good, son. That’s enough,” Terry says and claps him on the back.

When Mickey looks down, he sees the kid lying on the ground barely conscious, his head lolling dazed and his face bloody. He looks down at his own hand and sees the kid’s blood on it. Can feel it aching from the repeated force.

Terry kneels down next to the kid and pats him down. Taking and opening the guy’s wallet, Terry rifles through it.

“Look at me… Michael, huh?” Terry says, reading from his ID, and then looks amused to Mickey. “If I catch wind of you going to the cops, we will pay you a little visit at home. And then we’re gonna see if I can’t shoot the gay out of you. Understood?”

He rattles the kid a little when he’s too dazed to answer until finally he nods in understanding. When he gets up and walks toward Mickey, he stops in front of him, quietly staring for a moment.

“Knew you were still my son,” he says and then pats him on his shoulder.

He doesn’t remember much of the drive back, his mind completely blank. Terry drops him off in their neighborhood and then drives off to go get his brothers to go on that run. When Mickey’s alone, he looks around, wondering where he is. Aimlessly he starts walking. Follows deserted back alleys up until his knees buckle weakly. He notices how his hands are shaking and slowly registers the low grade pain pulsating from them. When he looks at his hands, he sees how his skin tore around his knuckles. Sees the blood smears around his fingers. Mechanically, he wipes them on his jeans until he’s felt most of the dried blood flakes rubbing away. He bites his lip, holding in any sound that wants to come out. He wipes his arm over his eyes and sniffs. The cold bites into his lungs when he breathes, sees his exhales taking shape in front of him. He feels the tight grip inside his chest and he just can’t take it anymore. He doesn’t want to struggle for air anymore. He doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

He wants relief.

LT ->\---- ♡ ----<\- LT

“Mickey! Where have you been…” Ian says after opening the door, but trails off when he gets a good look at Mickey. Ian’s wearing a weird Christmas hat with fake mistletoe sewed to the side. His cheeks are blushing red and he looks so damn comfortably loose and happy.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Mickey says quietly.

Ian throws a glance over his shoulder and then steps outside, closing the door. He immediately turns to Mickey, lifts his arms to look at his bloody knuckles, looks him over for injuries.

“What happened?” He asks concerned.

Mickey looks down and bites the inside of his cheek. His eyes get uncomfortably dry as he stares to the ground and he has to blink a few times to get them to stop stinging. When no words seem to come out of him, Ian pulls on his arm.

“It’s okay. Come in,” he says gently.

He looks up and sees Ian smile reassuringly. Nodding, he follows his pull, but comes to a stop suddenly before entering. Reaching toward his back, he pulls out the gun, holds it up pointedly, and then looks around the front porch. He stashes it under the heavy terracotta pot that’s lying upside down on the side and then looks to Ian apologetically. Ian eyes him worriedly, visibly wondering where he’s been that he needed a gun.

When they enter the warm house, he sees the Gallaghers sitting around the living room, chatting and laughing. Kev and V are also there, sharing the recliner next to the window. They’re all wearing varying themed headpieces, making them the perfect addition to the Christmas decoration all around the house. He smells the fragrant remains of what must have been their dinner mixed with the scents of cinnamon and hot wine. It’s cozy warm in the room, the fireplace crackling softly in place and Mickey thinks suddenly this is all too much. He can’t deal with this right now. When he feels himself about to retreat, Ian puts his warm hand casually on his neck and pushes him forward.

“Look who’s here,” Ian says above the chatter.

“Mickey!” They yell, smiling and waving him in.

“You made it! Just in time! We’ve just started on the presents. Let me get you some hot cocoa,” Fiona says cheerfully as she’s walking over with Liam in her arms. She hands him over to Mickey and Mickey reflexively takes hold of him again. He looks at Ian for help, but Ian is simply ushering him toward the couch and sits him down. Ian sits next to him and pulls a blanket over their legs, similarly to how the others have huddled up. As comfortable as always, Liam is contently sitting on Mickey’s lap, watching the others chat. He’s wearing reindeer antlers and his nose is painted red and when he looks at Ian, the guy laughs.

“Rudolph,” he says and then points at his red-green hat. “I’m a Christmas elf. I thought you should make a happy memory with one of those.”

Mickey almost smiles seeing how happy Ian is wearing that elf hat. He wants to call him a dork.

“We’ve only got antlers left, but you’d match with Liam,” Ian says and reaches underneath the coffee table. When he simply holds the reindeer antlers in his hand after Ian has handed them to him, Liam leans over and takes them. He holds them out in front of Mickey’s face and looks at him expectantly. Mickey nods stiltedly and then puts them on. Ian chuckles when he looks Mickey over.

When Fiona returns to the living room, she holds a steaming mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream in her hand. She rounds the couch and hands it to Mickey and then takes her beer and casually stands around to listen to the others.

“… ripped edges, smells like cheap beer… You could make me work harder, Kev,” Lip says, looking over to him amused.

“Hey, I resent cheap beer!” Kev replies, pointing at him and they laugh.

“I knew I shouldn’t have put you in charge of wrapping his gift,” V says and then tosses Lip a candy cane from the bowl in her hand.

“Thank you. Three for three,” Lip says and puts it into the breast pocket of his shirt next to the other two candy canes he must have won already.

“Yours are always too perfect. One look and everyone knows it’s from you,” Kev shoots back at V.

“And yours look too sloppy. Be more gentle next time,” she retorts admonishingly.

“Want me to be more gentle, baby?” He asks, smirking, leaning into her neck to kiss it and then spanking her ass once. V laughs out and the others react in either amused chuckles or exasperated groans.

Lip unwraps his gift and then holds out a worn leather vest with wings sewed into the back.

“May your motorcycle phase be finally over and this vest the only thing remaining,” Kev says and holds out his bottle of beer.

“Hear, hear,” Fiona cheers to that.

“Thanks, I love it,” Lip says, laughing and puts it on.

They keep handing out presents and trying to guess who they’re from, Lip staying unchallenged. The atmosphere is cozy and comfortable. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. They’re excited and happy and Mickey thinks they managed to make it special just like they wanted. Subtle Christmas carols are coming from the kitchen, the Christmas lights are hanging from the windows and staircase railing, mini Santas, elves, and reindeer are strewn about all over the place, mistletoe is fixed beneath the kitchen door frame, and the family stockings are hanging over the fireplace. Their names are merely scribbled on paper and pinned to the stockings, so everyone knows which one is theirs. When he reads over them, he lingers on Ian’s. Sees the block letters in red ink pinned to the weathered stocking. Thinks he spots cigarette burns on the side, hidden halfway by the stocking next to it. Mickey swallows when he sees whose name is on that one.

“Next one is…” Fiona says and walks over to the tree. She grabs a present wrapped in white paper with little miniature Santas all over it and looks at the name tag. “Mickey!”

Mickey’s eyes wander confused around the room. When Fiona takes the mug of hot chocolate out of his hands and exchanges it for the present, he looks at it bewildered.

“Gotta guess first before you open it,” Carl says from where he is sitting on the floor next to the fireplace.

The others nod and look at him expectantly. Ian bumps him from where they’re sitting next to each other and looks pointedly at the present. Mickey stares at the white wrapping paper. The Santa Clauses on it are almost perfectly aligned and the corners are just the slightest bit crooked and mismatched, but it looks nice. When he turns it around to look at the back where the long line is taped, he thinks he sees traces of glitter on it.

“Debbie…?” He asks.

“How did you know!” Debbie cries out, absolutely bewildered, whereas the others cheer and holler, impressed by Mickey’s first correct guess. V throws him a candy cane, his deserved reward.

“Open it,” Ian says.

Mickey rearranges Liam a little and pulls him closer, so he can use both hands to unwrap his present. When he opens the box, he finds a dark gray set of a scarf, beanie, and gloves in it.

“You’re always running around without. Those should keep you warm from now on,” Fiona says.

Ian takes the scarf and, just like he had the day he ran those suicides, he wraps it casually around Mickey’s neck.

“It’ll do,” he muses, apparently thinking of something.

“Oh, it’s nice. Brings out his eyes,” V comments.

Mickey looks around and then clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he says.

“We got one more,” Ian says and puts the box to the side. Fiona passes him another present from under the tree and Ian hands it to Mickey. “Guess first; you know the drill.”

Mickey looks at the small box. It’s wrapped in simple green paper. The corners aren’t quite aligned and the tape job is a bit messy at a few spots, but his name is written with meticulous care at the top right corner. After spending months reading a litany of essays and annotations, he’d recognize that handwriting everywhere. He looks at Ian and the latter’s lips pull into an involuntary smile.

“Okay, that one’s easy probably,” he says, laughing.

“That’s unfair. His candy cane is forfeit,” Carl chimes in. The Gallaghers suddenly start heatedly arguing about rules and past cases.

“Open it,” Ian says while everyone else is involved in the debate.

Mickey slides his finger under the wrapping and tears it open to find a generic carton box underneath. Opening it, he pulls out two keychains. One pendant being a whiskey bottle and glass and the other one a single orange. The chains are linked together at the top, connecting them. Mickey looks at Ian, his eyebrow raised.

“Can’t afford top-shelf whiskey,” he says amused.

“Thanks,” Mickey replies and feels the corner of his lips rise into a small smile.

Ian leans a bit closer and starts whispering.

“You can use it for the copy I made you.”

Mickey stares at him. He bites the corner of his lips as he watches him grin. His heart fucking aches.

He looks down at the keychain and thumbs the two pendants in his hand. He feels the soft scarf around his neck and the weird reindeer antlers on his head. He hears the low-key Christmas music and the Gallaghers laughing. He sees the stockings above the fire place, including his very own. He holds Liam on his lap and feels his weight and warmth. And when he looks over to Ian, he sees him staring at him with those soft green eyes. Ian pulls the blanket higher up and leans into him. And while they’re listening to the others chat and laugh, Ian slides his hand over Mickey’s arm underneath the blanket and then wraps his hand around Mickey’s. Slotting it over his torn knuckles, he gently tightens his hold. The bond trickles softly in place and the dull, pulsating ache dissipates. Mickey’s eyes flicker aimlessly over his lap and he keeps biting his lip. When Ian starts letting the bond spread, it’s overwhelming him. Feels the bond reaching into every corner of his body. Mickey remembers the first time he had managed to connect them like this and how he was unable to define this impossible sensation. Mickey just feels full, feels warm, feels serene, feels right, feels complete, feels… like he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two thirds down, one more to go! As always please leave love!
> 
> Birthday shoutout to a special someone! ♡
> 
> My tumblr: https://annansmith.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

Mickey has gotten used to waking up to a lot of things since he’s started staying over at the Gallagher’s on occasion. Smoke alarms going off, police showing up, Debbie and Fiona fighting over Debbie’s new boyfriend, Carl’s cries of pain when he manged to slice into his own hand while playing around with a switchblade, which he vehemently denies having given Carl when asked by Fiona, and worst of all Mandy and Lip literally fucking around one room over. He so does not like that particular development, but his complaints seem to make Mandy just moan louder the next time they’re doing it to piss him off further. He hates her. And he especially hates Lip. Even if the guy has started helping him study now. He can’t wait for Mandy to drop him and move on to another dude. So while he’s been getting used to a lot in the morning when sleeping over at the Gallagher’s, there still seems to be new things that test his patience. He yelps out and startles awake with a jolt when he opens his eyes to see Ian quietly staring down at him from his bed next to where Mickey is lying on the floor.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ian! The fuck are you looking at?” Mickey barks startled, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I don’t understand why you insist on sleeping on the floor. There’s enough space up here,” Ian says, his head propped up on his arm.

“You have a twin bed,” he shoots back incredulously. Never mind that he’s not awake enough for this conversation anyway. Mickey pulls the blanket tighter around him. He’s got morning wood and he doesn’t need another awkward moment like last week having Ian comment on it like the weirdo he is. There are unspoken rules about these things between men. Not talking about boners when you’re sleeping in the same room is probably number one on the list.

“We made it work before,” Ian simply replies.

“Yeah, well, those were extraordinary circumstances,” he grumbles and shifts a little under the blanket to rub against his hard-on once. He is so fucking sexually frustrated lately it’s not funny. And it doesn’t help that he can’t rub one out while he’s at the Gallagher’s. There’s literally no privacy at any given point in time. Hell, he couldn’t even sleep without Ian creep watching him.

“It looks hard,” Ian says and Mickey’s eyes snap to him. Ian juts his chin toward him. “The floor. It looks hard and uncomfortable. Just sleep up here.”

For a moment there Mickey thought Ian noticed his boner again.

“Fuck off, Gallagher,” he simply replies and throws his arm over his eyes.

“Suit yourself,” Ian says and then gets up, stepping over him. “I’m taking first shower.”

“Leave me some hot water…” Mickey mumbles.

“Nope.”

“What did I do?” Mickey complains, not understanding. He sighs, still hiding behind his arm.

“You’re being you,” Ian yells over his shoulder and then enters the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

“The hell does that mean?” Mickey grumbles and slides his arm off to look at Liam who is sitting quietly on his bed across from him.

He hears the shower turn on and already mourns the loss of hot water. Just as well, he thinks. Not like he can take care of his morning situation. A cold shower will solve one problem. He looks over to the bed, sees the soft mattress inviting him, and sighs. No means no. The floor is just fine. Though his cracking body seems to feel otherwise. He sits up and rubs his stiff neck and then looks over to Liam.

“What do you say, big guy? Can I take your bed tonight?” He asks charmingly. Liam just shakes his head. “No? Okay, whatever. See if I read you ‘Charlie Changes into a Chicken’ for the seventh time.”

Liam just keeps quietly sitting there, probably waiting for somebody to get him for breakfast. Mickey can’t believe the kid is the most affable out of all the Gallaghers. Quiet, uncomplicated, and most importantly drama free.

“Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite,” Mickey says, huffing. He glances down the hall to the bathroom. “Maybe second favorite.”

LT ->\--- ♡ ---<\- LT

“That’s bullshit! Three cars in between is too many. You’ll lose the guy,” Carl says as he and Mickey walk up the back porch steps.

“No, it’s not! You want them to spot you? When you tail someone you gotta keep your distance,” Mickey retorts.

“But not three cars! You’ll never keep up in this traffic,” Carl disagrees vehemently and walks through the kitchen door.

“Trust me, I know what I’m talking about,” Mickey says. Though honestly he’s never tailed anybody yet, which is surprising seeing he’s mostly done about everything else. Trashed a car, stole a car, hit somebody with a car… But never tailed somebody in a car. Be that as it may, he does know how much of a distance is required to stay under the radar and still keep them in sight.

“Still think that’s bullshit,” Carl replies and takes the last cookie from the kitchen counter. Mickey snatches it out of his hand.

“It’s not and consider this payment for my mentoring services,” Mickey says and holds the cookie up pointedly. Carl rolls his eyes and then heads up the stairs.

Mickey shakes his head. The guy still has a lot to learn. Though he admits the kid wasn’t too bad on his first attempt at hotwiring a car today. Not very refined and smashing the window was definitely overboard, but he got the motor running within five minutes, so all in all he has potential. Spotting Ian on the living room couch with a magazine in hand, he stuffs the chocolate chip cookie in his mouth and grabs two beer, heading over. He props himself up on the backrest with his arms, leans over, and hands him one bottle, curiously looking at what Ian’s reading.

“Hey,” Ian greets distractedly and takes the beer, immediately setting it down on the coffee table without taking a sip.

“What the fuck are you reading?” Mickey asks, his eyebrows almost rising to his hairline.

“Some of Debbie’s notes and magazines,” Ian says, still very invested in his literature.

“’15 steps on how to make him notice you’?” Mickey reads out loud the title of the magazine’s article incredulously, to which Ian just hums in affirmation. “The fuck are you reading that for?”

“Research,” Ian simply replies.

“For what?” Mickey asks stupefied. He looks over all the different notes and printouts. Seems like Ian shifted his research madness to a new topic. But why in the hell this one? Ian can be so weird sometimes.

“Trying to learn some techniques. You wouldn’t believe how dense some people are,” Ian replies, circling something in the magazine.

“What? There a girl you like…?” Mickey asks and doesn’t really understand how he feels about the thought.

Ian turns around at that and gives him this look Mickey has learned to interpret as _You’re an idiot_. Mickey looks at him, not understanding.

“’Sometimes we happen to meet the one: he’s cute, he’s good-looking, he’s making us laugh… But he’s not noticing us. At least not like that. So what can a girl do to rip those blinders off and finally get him to see her in a whole new light? Here’s fifteen steps on how to make him notice you!’” Ian reads out loud. Mickey still just looks confused by all this, so Ian elaborates. “Some people are too oblivious to realize there is someone who likes them. But they’re also too delicate that you can’t outright tell them.”

“Who doesn’t notice somebody hitting on them? This still about Debbie’s boyfriend? Her new one sounds like he gets it though. Should get lucky real soon,” Mickey says, huffing.

“Really? You don’t think somebody can flirt with a guy and the guy doesn’t notice?” Ian asks, looking at him.

“Must be a real idiot, alright,” Mickey scoffs.

Ian purses his lips and narrows his eyes at him. When Mickey looks at him questioningly, Ian leans further around to face him better. He reaches his hand out and puts it on Mickey’s cheek and Mickey flicks his eyes startled between the hand and Ian’s face in reaction. Ian lets his thumb brush over Mickey’s lower lip, gliding to the spot next to the corner of his lips and then lets go. Mickey sees a chocolate smear on Ian’s thumb, guesses he must have gotten some on him when he ate that cookie, and then sees Ian sucking it off.

Mickey’s mind goes blank for a minute, trying to process that image. Ian licks over his bottom lip with a content hum. With all his willpower Mickey tries not to get hard. Why the fuck did that look so pornographic to Mickey?

Feeling like a mess, he takes a long sip from his beer. Self-conscious about possibly more chocolate left on him, he rubs around and at his lips awkwardly and then glances to Ian.

“Thanks…”

Ian just nods and makes this weird eye movement when he can’t believe something and then turns back around to continue reading.

“By the way, why does it say in Debbie’s notes: Mickey colon get naked question mark?” Ian asks.

Far in the back of his mind Mickey thinks he remembers giving her advice about how to seduce her now ex-boyfriend a long time ago.

“No idea,” he says and clears his throat.

Mickey slides over the back of the couch and plops down next to Ian. He sees him making some notes, but since he doesn’t really want to know the details, he looks away and keeps nursing his beer.

“Do you like the way I smell?” Ian asks out of nowhere, making Mickey blink in bewilderment.

“I guess…” He answers and it sounds more like a question.

Ian nods satisfied and scribbles something down. Mickey has already finished his beer whereas Ian’s is lying untouched on the coffee table. He reaches for it, thinking it’s wasted on Ian currently, and starts drinking.

“I still don’t understand what’s gotten into you. Why are you acting all like a girl?” Mickey asks, eyebrows furrowed. Ian rolls his eyes exasperated at that comment.

“Okay, let me ask you a question,” he says and turns around to Mickey. “What do _you_ think it means to be in a relationship?”

Mickey’s eyebrows furrow deeper, wondering what all these lines of questions are about. And how the fuck is he supposed to know what a relationship is supposed to be like? He’s never dated anybody.

“I don’t know! Two people banging,” he says.

“That’s it?” Ian asks.

“What else is there?” Mickey asks confused and frustrated.

“What about love?” Ian shoots back.

“Jesus Christ, what are we talking about love for? Are we pussies now?” Mickey says, shaking his head bewildered, and takes another sip from his beer.

“Have you, like, never been in love with anybody?” Ian asks and waits for his answer expectantly with wide eyes.

Mickey blows out a stuttering breath, completely out of his element here. He wonders how they are actually talking about this right now.

“What does that even mean? In love?” Mickey asks incredulously. He can barely stand girls and he sure as hell has never been in love with one. And while he enjoys fucking guys, that doesn’t mean he likes them. It’s just sex, getting off. He’d never fall in love with a guy. He’s not a fucking queer.

“It means being head over heels for someone. To not be able to stop thinking about someone. Someone who makes you feel all excited whenever you look at them. A person you trust and rely on. Someone you care about. Someone special. Don’t you recognize that feeling?” Ian explains breathlessly.

“Ian, I have no fucking clue what you’re on about,” Mickey responds almost helplessly.

“Forget it. You wouldn’t realize you’re in a relationship if the word was stamped to your forehead,” Ian says scoffing and collects all of Debbie’s printouts and magazines.

“Where are you going?” Mickey asks bewildered when he sees him leaving.

“Research!” He yells and walks up the stairs.

LT ->\--- ♡ ---<\- LT

Narrowing his eyes, he looks at the spectacle in front of him with barely concealed distaste. The giggling is hitting his ear wrong and he wants to scratch himself deaf. And why the fuck do they need to talk so close to each other they’re almost in each other’s laps? When he sees her whispering in his ear, he hits his cup on the cafeteria table. They startle away from each other and look at him.

“What crawled up your ass and died this morning?” Mandy asks with an annoyed huff.

“Don’t you have friends in your own grade you can hang out with?” Mickey asks, fed up with seeing her every day in school now that she’s enrolled back. While she had to repeat a grade because of her time in juvie and is not in their classes, she keeps hanging out with them during lunch and free periods. Well, mostly she keeps hanging _on_ Ian, whispering and laughing like they’re a couple of teenage girls.

“Ian and I shared a grade long before you decided to nerd up and come to school. Still don’t understand why you’re here,” Mandy says, scoffing.

“None of your fucking business. Can’t you go already? Don’t you have a teacher to seduce?”

“Don’t you have a class to fail?”

“Okay, okay, stop it you two,” Ian says, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t mind me hanging around, right?” She says sweetly as she’s leaning suggestively into his side.

“Of course not, I like having you around,” Ian replies, smiling. Mickey notices how he is not even trying to get away from her grip.

“I thought you had a thing going on with Lip?” Mickey barks, not understanding why she’s all over Ian.

“I like ‘em both,” she says, smirking. She keeps staring at Ian with this seductive look of hers. “Sure you don’t want to be my boyfriend too?”

Mickey shakes his head, unable to believe she’s actually flirting with Ian when she’s already dating a Gallagher brother.

“I told you,” Ian merely says and looks at her amused.

“I know. Still… We could have some fun,” she replies, grinning, but then finally lets him go and turns around to put her pen and notebook away. “Thanks for helping me with my homework.”

“Anytime,” Ian says with a smile.

The bell rings for the first time and most students start to trickle out. Ian and Mickey have a free period next and Mickey is happy he’s finally getting rid of his sister.

“Let’s talk more later? Remember, the eyes,” she says quietly, Mickey hardly being able to hear her through the background noise in the cafeteria. “And if all fails, just take a page out of my book. Be direct,” she says and cups his chin to kiss him on his cheek. “And aggressive.”

Ian chuckles and thanks her, waving her goodbye. When she hops away, she leaves giving Mickey the bird. Mickey reciprocates.

“When did you two become best friends?” Mickey asks annoyed. Ian turns around to him, looking loose and in a good mood.

“She was just asking for help on her English essay,” Ian says and unwraps his cookie.

“She’s dating your genius brother. If she needs help, she can ask him,” he replies annoyed.

“Don’t worry. I might be helping her with her homework occasionally, but I’ll always be thinking of you. You’re my one and only study partner,” he says amused and throws a chunk of cookie in his mouth.

Mickey’s eyes flicker around flustered. Lately Ian has been making these comments, to which Mickey never knows how to react. Like when out of nowhere during studying Ian told him that he really likes his blue eyes. Or yesterday when Mickey borrowed a shirt to sleep in Ian mentioned how he liked the look on him. He always says these things and then just looks at him like he’s doing now. Staring at him softly with just the smallest of smiles crinkling the corner of his eyes. Ian has been acting really strange recently.

“Cookie?” Ian offers and holds it out in front of him while licking some crumbs from the corner of his lips.

Mickey doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look at a cookie again and not start getting heart palpitations.

LT ->\--- ♡ ---<\- LT

It’s only by chance that Mickey finds out it’s Ian’s birthday. It’s Debbie that asks him what they’re doing tonight, if they have special plans and when he looks at her confused she says verbatim: _For Ian’s birthday, stupid?_ Debbie looks outright appalled when he tells her that he didn’t know that it was today. He spent all day with the guy at school and not once did he mention that it’s his birthday. This isn’t Mickey’s fault. If Ian doesn’t tell him, how is he supposed to just know? Mickey actually panics a little. He never really gave a shit about anyone’s birthday, but after all this time they spent together since they met, he feels like he can’t just let the day pass like it has so far.

“Aren’t you guys doing something? Throwing him a party or some shit?” Mickey asks, biting his lip.

“No, he doesn’t like us making a fuss. Besides, we all thought you two were going to spend his birthday together,” Debbie says while painting her nails at the kitchen table.

“He never told me!” Mickey repeats and brushes his hand over his face. “Fuck that. If he doesn’t say anything, how is that my problem?”

Debbie just looks at him disapprovingly and Mickey sighs.

“Fuck! It’s 5pm and I’m only learning about this now. What do I do?”

“Take him out, get something to eat, take a stroll around the promenade? How do you guys usually spend your nights out?” Debbie says.

“We’re shit broke. We usually just get cheap beer and get hammered,” Mickey replies, having started to pace around the kitchen now. Ian is currently out with Lip, doing something. They must be doing their brotherly bonding shit now that he knows it’s Ian’s birthday. He seriously can’t believe how nobody told him in advance.

“You gotta come up with something better. He’s important to you, right?” Debbie asks in that mature voice of hers that always makes Mickey forget that he’s talking to a teenager.

“Well, yeah…” He says and eyes her weirdly.

“Any ideas for his present?” Debbie asks.

Right, birthdays and presents go hand in hand, Mickey bemoans inside his head. But the day is almost over; no way he can get a present this late. Never mind that he has no idea what to get Ian.

“Fuck,” Mickey says again and throws his arms in the air helplessly.

“You know, I don’t think it really matters. I think the only person he would want to spend his birthday with is you. How you two celebrate doesn’t really matter. He’ll be happy as long as you’re there,” Debbie says as she slides the nail polish away and splays her fingers out for her nails to dry.

“Well, if the bastard wanted to spend the day with me, he could have said something,” Mickey replies, exhaling in frustration.

“Ian never really asks for anything. He’s always been like that,” Debbie says softly and shrugs.

It’s not like Mickey hasn’t noticed that by now. He seems to be the typical middle child that goes along with everyone else. Self-reliant and quiet. He sighs and then grabs his jacket, making his way to the door.

“Tell Ian I’ll be back in a bit,” he says and heads out.

LT ->\--- ♡ ---<\- LT

Slowly, he pushes the ajar door further open to see Ian sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, and going over what Mickey recognizes must be his homework. It’s Friday night, not to mention his birthday, and the guy is checking Mickey’s Econ essay. He clears his throat and Ian snaps his head up, noticing him for the first time.

“Hey Mick,” he says and smiles.

“That’s all you have to say, asshole?” Mickey asks, leaning against the door frame.

Ian furrows his eyebrows as he caps his pen and looks at Mickey confused.

“What else am I supposed to say?”

“How about telling me that today’s your frigging birthday?” Mickey retorts.

Ian makes this expression that he finally understands and then to Mickey’s annoyance simply shrugs.

“It’s not a big deal,” Ian says.

“Fuck it isn’t. Don’t you think your damn soulmate should know when it’s your birthday?” Mickey hisses quietly after having looked over his shoulder, if anyone is around.

Ian smiles at that, laughs a little, and looks up again.

“Sorry, point taken. It’s just I don’t really care about it. I never celebrate,” he says.

“Tonight you do,” Mickey replies, not brooking any argument and holds out the plastic bag from behind his back.

“What’s that?” Ian asks, looking at it curiously.

Mickey steps into the room, closes the door, and then pulls out the contents of the bag.

“All I could do on short notice,” he says and holds up in his hand a single-malt whiskey and two glasses.

“How did you pay for that bottle? It looks fucking expensive,” Ian replies, smiling happily.

“Who said anything about paying?” Mickey asks and raises his eyebrow pointedly as he hands the stuff over to him.

“You stole it?” Ian replies and while he’s rolling his eyes he’s also laughing.

“You think I got money to actually buy shit like that? That bottle costs 300 bucks.”

“Top-shelf single-malt whiskey,” Ian says appreciatively, looking over the bottle. “Think it’s any good?”

“We’re gonna find out,” Mickey replies and sits down in front of him. He pulls out what’s left in the bag and then holds it out to Ian. “They only had boring vanilla cake left, but that’s your fault for not giving me a heads-up.”

Ian keeps smiling and Mickey feels a bit proud of himself.

“I happen to like vanilla,” Ian says and looks at him happily.

Mickey snorts and then hands him a plastic fork.

“Got no candles, but you can still make a wish,” Mickey says and shrugs.

“Okay,” Ian simply replies.

Mickey nods to the cake and prompts him to start digging in. While Ian takes the first bite, Mickey pours them each a glass.

“Good?” He asks, watching him eat.

“Really good,” Ian says and then holds the cake out to him. Mickey takes his own fork and tries it.

“Sweet,” he says and then hands Ian one of the glasses.

“Cake and whiskey,” Ian points out amused as he takes it.

“Cake and whiskey,” Mickey confirms and holds his glass out for Ian to clink. “Happy birthday, dork.”

He meets Ian’s eyes earnestly.

“Thank you, Mickey,” Ian replies softly.

Their eyes linger for a moment longer before they eventually take a sip from the whiskey.

“Damn, that shit’s actually good,” Mickey says, smirking self-satisfied.

“I see now why you compared yourself to this stuff,” Ian replies, smiling behind the rim of his glass.

“Don’t you forget it. I’m fucking exquisite,” Mickey says and takes another sip.

“An acquired taste for sure,” Ian responds and chuckles when Mickey gives him a look. “Don’t worry, I always knew how exquisite you were.”

“What’s with you and saying shit like that lately?” Mickey asks, narrowing his eyes a little.

“Figure it out yourself,” Ian replies and simply shrugs.

Mickey doesn’t understand what the hell that is supposed to mean. He pours himself another two fingers and tops Ian’s glass off as well. They put on some alternative rock, drink and eat, and after a couple of hours Mickey pulls out a joint. Ian smirks appreciatively and they light it up, passing it around between them. It really takes the last edge off and they sit contently next to each other, leaning against the bed and sharing stories. It’s nice and comfortable. They tend to get along so effortlessly. They have fun. Mickey can’t remember ever having met a person he enjoyed to hang around as much. He watches how Ian talks through his story, shoveling more cake into his mouth ever since they started to get the munchies. He looks loose and happy and Mickey is too. They are definitely drunk, having almost finished three fourths of the bottle. He can see Ian’s hooded eyes and the light blush above his cheekbones. Feels the heat beneath his own skin.

“Why did she steal a baby?” Mickey asks bewildered and laughs.

“It’s Debbie,” Ian simply replies.

“Your family is such a catastrophe,” Mickey says, shaking his head.

“Like yours isn’t? Are you telling me you don’t have one story that has ended this way?” Ian asks.

“What? In having stolen a baby?” Mickey retorts and raises his eyebrow.

“There must be something that has ended up in the Milkovich memoirs of crazy by now. What was your worst run?” He asks expectantly and takes another bite of cake. There is a memory that immediately springs to Mickey’s mind and Ian notices. Excitedly, he bumps against his arm, prompting him to spill it. “What is it? Is it worse than the time you got shot?”

“Well, I also got shot on that run,” Mickey says, casually throwing his hand out.

“What happened?” Ian asks curiously, holding the plastic fork between his lips.

“Uncle Ronny, Iggy, and I were paid to rob a house this summer. Divorce dispute or some shit. All was fine until we tried to get that huge ass clock from the hall. The lady who lived there woke up from her little wine coma and started shooting. Fucking had a shotgun! We barely made it out of there alive. I got shot and limped all the way to the van, throwing myself inside, and we hightailed it out of there,” Mickey tells him.

“You limped? Where did you get shot?” Ian asks.

Mickey looks away and takes another sip from his glass. When Ian prompts him again, he mumbles his reply. And then once more when it was too quiet for Ian to hear, until he eventually has to shout it out.

“I got shot in the ass! Okay? Damn lady shot me in the ass!”

First Ian silently looks at him with wide eyes until the image seems to have played out in front of his inner mind and then he bursts out laughing. And doesn’t stop laughing. Mickey grumbles into his glass, downing the last of his drink.

“No… no fucking way…” Ian says, sill laughing.

“You think I’d make something like that up? I was lying on a damn kitchen counter while a Russian doctor pulled the shots out of my ass!”

“Oh my God, stop! I can’t anymore… Why wasn’t I there to see that?” Ian asks, trying to breathe.

“It’s not fucking funny! I couldn’t sit for a week!” Mickey retorts and he should have known that would make Ian laugh more.

“Now I’m even more disappointed that we didn’t know each other back then. I could have made it better,” Ian says and holds his hand up in between them, wiggling his fingers. He playfully raises his eyebrows and laughs again.

“Laugh it up! I still have the scars to show for it!” Mickey replies grumpily.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever heard…” Ian says and _still_ can’t stop laughing. He turns his head to Mickey, his grin twitching with the effort to rein it in. He stares at him, happy. “Thanks for spending my birthday with me, Mickey.”

Mickey keeps meeting Ian’s eyes and eventually simply nods. Ian’s eyes flicker over Mickey’s side for a moment until he settles back on Mickey’s face. Mickey notices how his eyes are bloodshot from the weed and how his pale skin allows the heat to show on his cheek. He’s definitely drunk and high, but so is Mickey. Ian licks his lips and Mickey can see he’s gearing up to say something.

“I know I’m not supposed to say my wish out loud, but there is something I want to ask you,” he says quietly. Mickey raises his eyebrow in response. “But before that,” he says and slides closer, so their sides and legs are flush against each other. Mickey’s eyes flicker down and back up again. Ian reaches for Mickey’s hand and takes it. He slips his fingers through Mickey’s and interlocks their hands. “Our five minutes a day.”

This is a bit different to how they usually do it and Mickey feels like he’s supposed to say something, but when he sees how Ian stares at him, his breath seems stuck in his throat and no words come out. He feels how Ian is brushing his thumb ever so slowly over the back of his hand, the bond humming lowly along. Ian’s eyes flicker over Mickey’s face and Mickey is frozen into place.

“If…” Ian starts and presses his lips together for a second. He’s still looking into his eyes and Mickey’s vision is starting to spin from focusing on those green eyes. “If there was no tomorrow, no consequences to your actions, and you could have whatever you wanted, what would you do?”

Mickey furrows his eyebrows a little, not understanding the question, nor where it is coming from.

“What?”

“In this room, here, right now,” he says and lifts their entwined hands a little to indicate the room. “If you could be free to do whatever you wanted. If you could have whatever you wanted… What would it be?”

Mickey still doesn’t understand. He stares at Ian, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. He sees his green eyes not looking away, waiting for his answer. Running the question back through his mind, he looks at the room. The same room they’ve spent countless hours in together. Studying, fooling around, sleeping… This little run-down room he’s come to consider his second home. With the paint chipping away at places, with the dozens of posters hanging on the walls, including that stupid news paper article of himself Ian had taped above his bed, with the low voltage light above them, and the old window that sticks whenever they try to open it. This room he likes better than his own, because he gets to spend his time with Ian here. Just the two of them away from prying eyes. Where he can be the truest version of himself he dares to share. A safe space.

Refocusing his eyes on Ian’s, he can’t help but look at the fair lashes. Can’t help but survey the many freckles peppered around his face. Around his cheeks, above the bridge of his nose, and even on his eyelids. Sees some around the corners of his lips. Lips that are slightly parted and show the hint of white teeth.

And Mickey wonders what those would feel like, nibbling on his skin…

If Mickey could be free for one night and have anything he wanted, he would want to find out what it feels to have those teeth scraping along the back of his neck. He would want to figure out what those lips would feel sliding down his spine. He would want to know if he would shiver from the wet trail his tongue would leave behind. He would want to feel his warm exhales hitting his skin. If he could have whatever he wanted, he would want to experience Ian’s hands gliding over his body. His fingers kneading into hips and his nails biting into his skin. His heated chest blanketing his back and their sweat mixing in between. He would want to know what his arms wrapped around his naked body would feel like. What Ian’s weight would feel against his back. What it would feel like to have his hips snap against his ass. What the slaps of naked skin would sound like echoed in this room. How their grunts and exhales would carry through the air. How the crook of Ian’s neck would smell, if he buried his face into it.

If Mickey could be free for one night, he would want to find out how Ian’s dick would feel stretching his rim. How it would push inside of his ass and fill him up so deep. How it would feel to tighten around the hard length. How it would feel to have Ian move inside of him. He would want to know how hard and fast Ian could thrust. Whether it would push him along the bed or up the wall. Whether Ian would roll his hips or grind deep inside of him. Whether he could go on and on and on. Whether Ian could keep up with him and give him what he wants. Whether they would match rhythm and meet each other impatiently with every thrust. Whether Ian would find that spot inside of him that makes him see stars. He would want to find out what sounds Ian makes when he pushes into him. When he holds onto him. When he comes inside of him. He would want to find out, if Ian would whisper his name…

A breath stutters out of him and he blinks, tearing his eyes away from Ian’s lips.

“I don’t know what you’re asking…” Mickey stammers and hesitantly looks up into Ian’s eyes. He feels too hot. His heart is doing this harsh double beat inside his chest.

Ian stares at him for a long moment and Mickey has to swallow. With a small smile Ian averts his gaze to their locked hands and pulls them over onto his lap. He wraps his other hand over the back of Mickey’s and brushes gently back and forth.

“It’s okay. I’m pretty sure I have my answer,” he says and looks back up into Mickey’s eyes, smiling happily.

LT ->\--- ♡ ---<\- LT

Mickey is breaking his head over his Statistics exercise. The one Mrs. Daughenbaugh gave him in detention, because she likes to torture him. He’s the only son of a bitch in Statistics that has to do extra homework. Actually he had thought Mrs. Daughenbaugh had come around on him recently. She has been a lot more indulgent with him and he even saw her smile at him once, but she’s started burying him in homework more and more that he thinks he must have done something to piss her off. When he gets another unlikely percentage as a result, he sighs annoyed. He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong. If just somebody could help him figure it out. Like his assigned study partner. He glares down to his lap where Ian is currently sleeping. They had first started out studying Statistics and Trigonometry respectively on the living room couch. But then Ian had lied down, plopping his head on Mickey’s lap and casually continued working in that position. And no matter how much Mickey complained he wouldn’t get up. At some point Ian fell asleep and Mickey was left to sit there. Ian has been on him a lot lately. Keeps standing too close, looks for contact whenever he can get away with it, lets his touches weirdly linger… On two occasions now Mickey caught Ian smelling him. And he still can’t get over the day, Ian kept staring into his eyes, like he was looking for something. Something is going on and it’s making him crazy.

To make things worse he’s never been this sexually frustrated in his life. All this physical contact is driving him insane. It gets him really fucking horny. He needs to get laid soon. He hasn’t had sex ever since that afternoon with Scott. He had already been too spooked since the incident to pick somebody up from the park, but after what happened at Christmas he knows it’s definitely not an option anymore. It’s just that he’s so desperately in need of a fuck that everything Ian does lately is getting him really riled up. He doesn’t know how long he can endure Ian’s latest brand of mood until all his pent up frustration will make him lose his shit.

Looking down at him, he sighs frustrated at the thought that Ian seems to be really his type. Frankly, he didn’t think he had a type before, but those freckles and pale skin, it’s really doing it for him. That red hair and those green eyes… He needs to tear his eyes away from the sleeping dope on his lap. Ever since Ian’s birthday he keeps wondering what it would be like to get topped by a guy like him. His imagination is running wild and he squirms, trying his hardest not to get a boner.

This is bad, he thinks, sighing into his hands.

“Get up!” He barks and jerks his leg.

Ian startles awake and looks at him still sleep dazed.

“What?” He says, yawning.

“You have three seconds to get off me before I shove you off,” Mickey says, scowling.

Ian looks at him for a second and then turns his head, closing his eyes. Mickey is pretty sure somewhere in his body a vein burst from his anger. He puts his hand on Ian’s face and pushes him off his lap, making him fall on the ground. Mickey ignores his cries and complaints as he gets up to go home. He needs to jerk off yesterday.

LT ->\--- ♡ ---<\- LT

Curiously, Mickey watches how Fiona is standing at the front door, boxed in by a guy Mickey doesn’t recognize, and kisses him. He clears his throat when he climbs the front porch steps, needing to pass them in order to get inside.

“Sorry,” Fiona says and awkwardly looks at the guy, doing this weird patting on the arms thing as a goodbye. The guy smiles and his stare lingers as he hops down the steps and walks to his car.

When he’s driven off, Mickey looks at Fiona, raising his eyebrows. That definitely wasn’t her boyfriend.

“Didn’t know cup weirdo was out,” he says and sees her face fall in reaction.

Sighing, she opens the door and they both step into the house.

“He isn’t,” she says and when Mickey looks at her, she elaborates. “That was his brother.”

Of course he was. Mickey rolls his eyes while she isn’t looking.

“No way that can end terribly,” Mickey retorts.

“I know…” She groans, rubbing her forehead.

“You’re gonna keep seeing him?” He asks, pulling his beanie off.

“Well, I was trying to break up with him today,” Fiona replies, throwing her purse on the stairs and shrugging out of her jacket.

“Let me guess, you banged him instead?”

“In the copy room two offices down from Mike,” she says miserably. “What is wrong with me?”

“You fuck around, so what? You’re hardly the first person in history to do so. Just try not to let it blow up in your face,” Mickey replies.

“My last name is Gallagher. You’re asking the impossible,” Fiona retorts, looking sad and exhausted.

“Good luck,” Mickey says.

She throws herself on the couch and waves him off.

Mickey can’t help but chuckle quietly and then heads up the stairs. He runs into Ian coming out of the bathroom. Wet and wearing nothing but a towel. Mickey should have just gone home.

“Hey Mick,” Ian greets and walks ahead into the bedroom.

“Hey…”

Mickey follows, staring at the freckled skin wrapped taut over Ian’s shoulder blades. He tears his eyes away before Ian turns around and inspects the room instead, noticing how Liam and Carl aren’t there.

“How was Physics?” Ian asks conversationally.

“Fine,” he replies and leans against the bunk bed, crossing his arms casually.

He watches how Ian is combing his by now grown out hair back in the mirror.

“You going somewhere?” Mickey asks. It’s Friday evening and usually they spend it together. Admittedly, they spend almost every day together, so this isn’t specific to today.

“Yep,” Ian says and keeps looking himself over in the mirror, turning back and forth. “Do you think I should wax my chest?”

Mickey looks at him incredulously.

“You have literally three hairs. What the fuck are you talking about?” He asks bewildered.

“So, it looks good?” Ian asks, turning around, presenting himself.

Mickey stares at the defined abs and lingers on that red happy trail vanishing behind the towel. He swallows and looks away, nodding.

“Yeah, I guess.”

He sees Ian start putting lotion on himself. He keeps inspecting himself while he’s rubbing the lotion in.

“You got a date or somethin’?” Mickey asks hesitantly.

Ian looks at him at that and then ponders the question for a moment.

“Depends, are you coming with?” He asks.

“To your date?” Mickey retorts bewildered.

“To the party,” Ian corrects.

“What party?” Mickey asks, hearing of that for the first time.

“Standing Friday night party,” Ian simply replies and eyes his stomach, brushing over it. “This lotion is supposed to be shiny. Are my abs shiny, Mickey?”

Mickey is pretty sure his breath is stuck in his throat permanently. Ian raises his eyebrow expectantly, waiting for his answer. He shrugs and looks away. He’s going to get his gun and shoot himself; there is no other way out. Somehow he’s ended up in an alternate universe where he’s fated to die of blue balls.

“Wanna get my back?” Ian says, holding out the bottle of body lotion.

“No, I don’t want to get your fucking back!” Mickey shoots back incredulously.

“Didn’t think so,” Ian says and just shrugs. He squeezes more lotion on his hand and then twists to get to the hard to reach places, which coincidentally makes his muscles flex and protrude visibly. Mickey licks his lips.

When Ian is finally done, he seems satisfied enough with his job and then turns to Mickey. Mickey’s eyes flicker to and away from him as Ian walks over and he reflexively straightens a little when Ian stops right in front of him, towering over him. He has this easy smile etched to his face. Stares at him silently. From this close Mickey can smell the freshly soaped skin, mixed with that pleasantly distinct scent from Ian’s body lotion. He can see the freckles peppered around his chest and broad expanse of his shoulders.

“Wh-What?” He says.

Ian lifts his arm up over Mickey’s head, leaning into his space for a moment, and then pulls the shirt down that seemed to have hung above him from the bunk bed.

When Ian finally turns back, Mickey can finally breathe again. He slips into his shirt and buttons it and when Mickey thinks he’s managed to outlast this torturous show at last, Ian turns to his dresser, grabs a pair of boxers, and steps into them, pulling them up while the towel falls away.

He feels his blood pumping violently and has to extricate himself from this situation, _now_. He is on his way out when Ian grabs him by his arm.

“You’re coming, right?” Ian asks.

As long as the guy keeps his clothes on, everything works for him right now. He just needs to get out of this room for the time being.

“Yeah, whatever… Wait for you downstairs,” he says and quickly heads out.

Rushing down the porch steps, he comes to an abrupt stop and brushes his hand over his face. He nervously gnaws on the corner of his lips and squeezes his eyes shut. The situation is really getting out of hand. Ian has become so fucking comfortable with him, he doesn’t know what boundaries are anymore. If history didn’t prove by now that something awful always happens when he refuses Ian, he would have blown a fuse already. If fate really exists, it has a weird obsession with him and Ian. Are they like supposed to save the world in the future or why does something terrible always happen at the first sign of them separating? As it stands he’s getting slightly paranoid. He wants to put Ian in his place ever so often when he crosses boundaries, but it’s not like theirs can be compared to a normal relationship anyway. They’re fucking soulmates apparently. And it’s not just a weird-ass term thrown around between them. Whatever they are, whatever this is, it’s real and Mickey feels it in every cell of his body. He can’t quit the guy. And quite frankly Mickey has a hard time wanting to anyway. It’s just that he’s really fighting his nature here. His whole life he’s been thinking a certain way and he’s been triggered to react a certain way. And Ian is just challenging all of it. Mickey is honestly, wholly, to the best of his abilities trying here. But he just might die of a stroke, if Ian doesn’t keep his clothes on.

He fishes out his pack of smokes and lights a cigarette, relishing in the smoke filling his lungs. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting the cigarette hang between his lips.

“Let’s go,” he hears from behind him. Hears the door shutting and footsteps hopping down the porch steps. When he opens his eyes, he sees Ian leaning into him. Smiling, he plucks Mickey’s cigarette out of his mouth, slots his own lips around it, takes a drag, and then holds it back out to him. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

Ian Gallagher is going to be the death of him.

LT ->\--- ♡ ---<\- LT

Ian is being very vague about where they’re going. They’ve taken the L and are now walking down a few lively blocks. But Mickey is too distracted by his own thoughts, he isn’t exactly paying attention. Ian seems to be happy to just walk quietly next to him and push and pull Mickey in the right direction when required. So he notices it quite late where they’ve ended up. Dread is setting in and cold sweat is starting to break out when Mickey looks around the neighborhood. He’s back in Boystown. Merely two streets away from where Terry had taken him to beat up that hooker.

“Why the fuck are we in Boystown?” He asks shakily.

“Told you, we’re going out tonight,” Ian says casually, not noticing Mickey silently freaking out next to him.

His lungs are getting tight and when he looks down he sees his hands shaking. He never told Ian what really happened on Christmas. It’s not that he particularly wants to hide it from him, but whenever Ian asked him about that night, literally no sound would come out of him. He found himself physically unable to talk about it. His throat would just close up and he would apologetically look up at Ian. While confused and probably worried, Ian had accepted that he couldn’t talk about whatever happened. Mickey still replays that night in his head over and over. For some reason it has left him shaken to the point he hasn’t been sleeping much whenever he’s going back home. Logically he knows he is being pathetic. It’s not his first time beating somebody up, not even the worst he’s ever done to a person, but it’s the worst he’s ever felt about himself doing so. He would have rather had Terry use the baseball bat on him again instead of what he had asked him to do. Nothing ever hurt as much as his hand had that night. And now he’s back and he’s feeling fucking lightheaded.

“We can’t be here…”

“Okay, I realize this is going to be hard for you to come around on, but keep an open mind. Don’t freak out,” Ian says and then stops in front of a club, turning toward him. He eyes him a bit confused and concerned when he takes a good look at Mickey. “I knew this was going to be a shock to your system, but I didn’t think you would react this badly. You okay?”

“We need to get out of here…” Mickey pushes out and looks anxiously around the street.

Ian sighs quietly and puts his hands on Mickey’s shoulders.

“Hey, look at me. I know you need your time to freak out and process these things, but I don’t have the time to hold your hand tonight. I took a job at that club and my first shift starts in ten minutes,” Ian says, quickly checking the time on his new phone. The one Mickey gave him as a proper birthday present belatedly. They had a few unused ones at home from a little raid his brothers and he did last summer and since he was sick of Lip answering his occasional calls, he thought he’d give one to Ian, so he’d finally have his own. Absent-mindedly, he notices it has a photo of the two of them as its background image.

“What?” Mickey asks confused.

“Yeah, only job I found where I could work nights. Pay isn’t great, but the tips should make up for it,” Ian explains and then scrutinizes him closer. “Are you going to be okay?”

“You can’t work here…” Mickey says, freaking out. This is Boystown. Ian can’t work in fucking Boystown.

“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here without easing you into the idea first. Look, I have to get in. Just take the L and go back home. My shift ends at three and I’ll just go home alone,” Ian says and lets go of Mickey. Mickey reflexively grabs for Ian’s arm, holding tight.

“No!” He shoots back in response and looks over his shoulder to check the streets. Mickey can’t let Ian walk around Boystown alone. What if Terry got into a mood again and decides to come here to pick up another person to beat up?

“I need to go, Mickey. Are you coming in or not?” Ian says and Mickey tears his eyes away from the streets to look at him. He sees the neon sign _Fairy Tail_ hanging over the entrance behind Ian, sees men kissing and touching as they’re stumbling their way in and out… “Mickey!”

“Okay, okay, yes…” Mickey replies, sucking in a shallow breath.

Ian twists the arm Mickey is still holding onto so that he is gripping on it, pulling him along instead. He throws him a few worried side glances when they walk in, but otherwise stays quiet. The bouncer doesn’t ask for ID when Ian tells him he’s with him and simply nods them lazily into the club. It’s dark inside, the lights shining white and blue throughout the room. To the sides there are men dancing in skimpy little, glitter gold shorts, a tie around their necks to match the ridiculous outfit. The same thing the main dancers are wearing in the middle of the room on the little podiums placed strategically for everyone to see, whether from the various seating areas around it or the upper gallery on the long side of the room. Ian leads him to the far back to one of the bars and then makes Mickey look at him.

“I’m gonna go change. Wait here,” he says and then walks off through the hall behind the bar.

Mickey can’t believe Ian actually took a job at a gay club. He doesn’t understand why he would ever even consider working here. What sleazebag would even hire a barely legal kid to work at a place like this? It’s expectedly seedy. Mickey had pegged the drug pushers the minute he walked in. Sees half the dancers tweaking like little bitches from having all that snow up their beaks. Some of them are giving private dances on the couches, getting money bills shoved down their shorts by old perverts. The other guests are mostly looking and enjoying the show, lasciviously eyeing the half naked men twisting and bending in front of them. A few are kissing and making out with each other, not caring they’re in public. Gnawing on his lip, he stares unbelieving throughout the room.

“Here, this should help settle your nerves,” he hears the familiar voice shout over the music next to him and sees a bottle of beer being pushed into his hand. He has a hard time taking his eyes off this weird scene playing out in front of him. “Alex, the guy tending the bar behind us, knows you’re with me. He’ll slip you some booze as long as it’s not any hard liquor. I gotta do my thing now.”

Mickey startles out of his stupor and then turns around. He almost drops his beer bottle. With wide eyes he stares at Ian dressed in nothing but those skimpy golden shorts and tie the dancers are wearing. He’s almost naked, wearing this ridiculous club outfit. And he did something with his eyes and now they’re smudged black, making him look overly debauched.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” He asks incredulously.

“Work clothes,” Ian simply replies and pulls him along. Mickey stares speechlessly as Ian is hopping on the little stage and starts rolling his hips. “I dance here now!”

“You dance here now…” Mickey stutters, his eyebrows rising to his hairline. He tries to snap out of it. “Why the hell would you start dancing at a club?”

“I like dancing!” Ian shouts and moves with the music, letting his hands brush over his naked chest.

“Ian! This is a…” Mickey struggles with the words. He anxiously looks around. “This is a gay club! You can’t be working here!”

“Why not?” Ian asks casually and drops to a crouch in front of him. He spreads his knees outward, then lifts his ass, leaning forward into Mickey’s face. As he slides upward, he looks into Mickey’s eyes. “I’m gay.”

… _What?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please leave love!  
> My tumblr: https://annansmith.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

Ian Gallagher is gay.

How is he only finding out now? Ian never said anything. In all the time he’s been chatting Mickey’s ear off he never mentioned this. He talked about every innocuous little thing, but being gay for sure wasn’t one of them. He never talked about girls or boys or about past dating. Since they’ve known each other, they’ve practically spent every minute together and Mickey has never so much as seen the guy look at someone or actually go on a date with someone. How was Mickey supposed to know Ian was gay? How do you normally find something like this out when the person isn’t outright telling you?

He’s been ruminating over past memories for the last two hours now, trying to connect the dots belatedly. Trying to figure out when Mickey should have possibly come to the conclusion that his frigging soulmate is gay. He is sure Ian never shared that little detail with him. Neither did his siblings. They spent months together seeing each other every day. Mickey tries to remember if there were any signs that would have hinted to Ian’s sexuality. Any signs in the way he was behaving in front of him.

“Oh, fuck…” Mickey exhales, stupefied, sitting on the little seating in the corner next to the bar where Ian had nudged him to after dropping that bomb.

A few things make a lot more sense suddenly. The way Ian would look at him and talk to him and touch him… Ian had been hitting on him. Had straight out, in his face, been flirting with him. Had practically even told him as much. And Mickey hadn’t realized… He really is an idiot. He’s starting to think the only reason why Ian had never looked at anybody else was because he was always looking at him. Has he inadvertently been in a relationship with a guy for the past months without realizing it? Looking past his obliviousness, the bigger problem now is that the fact that Ian is gay changes everything. Mickey doesn’t know how he can keep hanging out with Ian, if Ian insists on treating him the way he does. He doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with the implications. Not to mention that he is so fucking attracted to him and knowing Ian’s actually into guys will forever mess with his head. Moreover they can’t stay friends, if Ian is openly gay. If Terry finds out his best friend is gay, he might just kill Ian. This is turning into such a clusterfuck.

“Hey,” Ian says as softly as the club music allows. He steps in front of Mickey, holding out another bottle of beer and then sits down next to him.

Mickey nods his thanks and holds the bottle in his hands in front of him. His arms are propped up on his thighs and he’s staring at the sticky ground between his legs.

“Got a fifteen minute break,” Ian says conversationally.

Ian is quiet for a moment. Mickey doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but he can’t bring himself to look at him.

“So I take it you really did not realize I was gay,” Ian says and all Mickey can do is nod. “I suspected.”

“You could have told me,” Mickey says and fiddles around with the label on the bottle.

“I was afraid you’d freak out,” Ian replies carefully. Mickey huffs sarcastically and looks up at the lights for a second. “Look, it doesn’t really change anything-”

“It changes everything, Ian,” he says and clenches his teeth.

It’s quiet for a moment and even though Mickey wonders what he’s thinking, he doesn’t have it in him to turn around to him yet. Eventually, Ian nudges his golden boot against Mickey’s shoe.

“I need to know, are you going to be able to handle this or are you going to run away again?” Ian asks softly and it sounds anxious.

He finally turns his head to look at him. His posture, his expression… he almost looks scared, Mickey thinks. And suddenly the only thing Mickey can think of is that inexplicable feeling of knowing that this person is his, that he in turn is Ian’s, that their connection is running so deep, no one else will ever be more important, that they will always be under each other’s skin, being bonded by the miraculous or not. He looks into Ian’s eyes for a long moment.

“’M not going anywhere…” He says and lets his head fall back.

Ian’s quiet again until Mickey feels an arm resting on his back and a hand squeezing his nape. The hand wanders up to the side of his head and then Ian is leaning in to kiss his hair. Ian lets go and Mickey just stares down.

“I’m going to back off a little, let you figure this out,” Ian says and Mickey guesses he’s referring to all the little games he’s been playing with him recently. He gets up and Mickey looks at him. “I need to go back. Are you going to wait up for me?”

Mickey nods and sees the corners of Ian’s lips rise into a small smile.

LT ->\-- ♡ --<\- LT

Mickey’s mind has been a mess ever since he found out Ian is gay. Trying to figure out how he feels about that and how he’s going to deal with that, have been taking up most of his brain capacity these last weeks. Thankfully, Ian has kept to his promise and let him be for now while he’s trying to come to terms with things. They’re still spending every minute with each other, either at school, at the Gallagher’s, or now at Ian’s new place of work, but Ian gives him space. They’ve been gearing up for the second wave of tests and Lip has taken out a lot of his time to tutor the both of them. Surprisingly, he’s pretty good at teaching. Is able to put things in words Mickey better understands. Lately even his Statistics homework has been returned with mostly everything marked as correct. Mickey hopes some of this progress will positively translate to the upcoming tests. Despite Mickey’s vocal reservations about Ian working at a gay club, Ian has been regularly putting hours in as a dancer at the Fairy Tail. Mickey never lets him go there alone. While he can’t always bear to be around this type of scene and stay throughout Ian’s shift, he never lets him walk to and back from the club by himself. Mickey is absolutely paranoid of Terry cruising around Boystown looking for trouble and possibly finding Ian. He’s taken to bringing a gun along now and while Ian has noticed and didn’t quite understand the need for it, he didn’t argue with Mickey.

When Mickey meets Ian on his way to school, they walk in companionable silence. Mickey hasn’t been staying over for a while and Ian hasn’t mentioned it, but Mickey knows it’s on his mind. They enter through the school gates and find the school somewhat in a turmoil. Teachers are hectically walking around, janitors are moving chairs and equipment, and most students are whispering in pairs or groups with each other about something.

“What’s going on?” Ian asks bewildered and looks at Mickey.

When first period is being canceled and the whole school is being called to the auditorium, Mickey watches confused as the cluster of students are making their way to the assembly hall. Following them, he comes to an abrupt stop when he reads the sign at the entrance.

_In memory of Principal Peter Allen who has passed away on Saturday of a year long battle with his heart disease._

“What the…” Mickey exhales.

They spent the next hour listening to the teachers talking about Principal Allen’s life, his positive impact on the school, his passion for his students, and his last days alive. Mickey is actually shocked. The guy had been such a constant pain in his ass, he never even considered him vanishing one day just like that. Principal Allen had been the pivotal point of his life changing so drastically, it’s hard to wrap his mind around the fact that he’s no longer around. And while he hated the guy for turning his life upside down, he knows that without his influence on his life he might not have met Ian. That whimsical bastard had let him to Ian and no matter how insufferable he was, he will never not be appreciative of that arrangement.

“…he worked until the very end to improve our life at this school. With his last efforts he managed to re-open the infirmary. We will never be able to thank him enough for his service to this school. To us teachers. To all of his students. Today we want to remember him as the wonderful man that he was and keep his memories with us as we try to follow his example,” Mrs. Daughenbaugh says and then concludes the memorial.

When Mickey stops in front of a memorial display on his way out, he reads over the late Principal Allen’s biography. He huffs and can’t trust his eyes as he’s reading over a specific paragraph. An involuntary laugh escapes him and he can’t believe what he’s reading.

… _Growing up_ _and spending most of his career in Baltimore, he moved to Chicago six years ago to take on a new challenge as our school’s principal. He’s been a positive, driving force ever since, with his students always being the focal point of all his efforts…_

“That son of a bitch…” He exhales.

From the very beginning until the very end has this man been fucking with Mickey. He has to find a way to pay that bastard back in the afterlife.

LT ->\-- ♡ --<\- LT

While Principal Allen had spent most of his work dealing only with the administration of running the school and had even dropped his last class after falling ill, the school still seems quite subdued for the rest of the day. Next to Mickey even Ian seems to have a hard time wrapping his head around Principal Allen’s death. They quietly walk home after school side by side. When they’re sitting down on Ian’s bed and reach for their bags to pull out their school stuff, Ian halts in his tracks. He pushes his bag away and then looks over to Mickey.

“Mickey,” he says, rubbing his neck. When Mickey looks up questioningly, Ian hesitantly looks his way. “What are you gonna do?”

“About what?” Mickey asks.

“The study program? School?” He replies. “You realize you don’t have to do this anymore, right?”

Mickey hadn’t even thought of that. Now that Principal Allen isn’t around there is nobody threatening to expose his secret anymore. The only reason why he had been going to school, had agreed to all the hours of studying, and had taken all the tests was because of their arrangement. With Principal Allen dead now he doesn’t really have a reason to do this anymore.

“Right…” Mickey says.

In the beginning he couldn’t have imagined anything worse than what Principal Allen had forced on him. He never saw any point in going to school. To work toward something as inane as graduation. Didn’t think that he could ever do it.

He still isn’t sure he’ll ever make use of a high school diploma, but he kind of wants it anyway. Somehow he doesn’t want this to end here. Wants to see if he can do it. Wants to see himself succeed. Wants to see himself at that stupid graduation. He looks up at Ian. He wants to graduate next to this guy.

“I’ll be damned if I spent the past months learning all that shit for nothing,” he says and flips open his textbook.

Ian is smiling, practically grinning, and then pulls his bag up to get his things out.

They spend all evening working on their homework, only going down to take a short dinner break, and then continue studying for their upcoming test. Spanish will be the first one next week and since Mickey hasn’t done very well on his first test, he needs this one to go better. But next to Statistics it’s probably his weakest subject. He’s really far behind everyone else, can barely put two sentences together. Even though Mickey’s Spanish vocab tests are marginally getting better lately, it’s still hard for him to remember the vocabulary long term. Especially since he doesn’t see any possible use for it in the future. Mickey doesn’t understand why he has to learn weird-ass words he’ll never be able to use in a conversation.

“I fucking hate this! When will I ever use _alcantarilla_ in a sentence?” Mickey complains.

“Probably in the upcoming test,” Ian muses, sitting on the floor with his back propped against the bed.

“Fuck that! I can’t remember this shit!” Mickey barks frustrated and flips his notebook away.

Ian turns around at that and looks at him. He puts his own notes away and then moves up to the bed.

“We need to find a study method tailored specifically to your brain. Plain memory dump isn’t working for you,” Ian says and thinks about it.

“Like what?” Mickey asks dubiously.

“Your last vocab test wasn’t bad. How did you remember those words?” Ian asks.

“Half of them were from the chapter about crime and living in a slum. Now _that_ is relatable. What the fuck am I supposed to do with _depuradora_?” Mickey grumbles.

“And the other half of the vocab test? You didn’t do so bad on those words either,” Ian says.

“I don’t know. I just remember going through them together with the other words,” Mickey replies, shrugging.

“That’s it I think. You trigger your memories based on how interesting it was to you. If it doesn’t hold your attention, you’re not gonna learn it,” Ian explains.

“Alright, but it’s not like I choose the words I’m supposed to fucking memorize.”

“How about we just sneak in words and phrases that you’d remember. Link them to a subset of vocabularies and whenever you remember those particular expressions, you recall the other list of words tied to them,” Ian suggests.

“Memorizing even more words?” Mickey points out unhappily.

“They just have to be interesting enough that you’d want to remember them. What is it you always wanted to be able to say in Spanish?” Ian asks.

“Nothing? Literally nothing?” Mickey replies as if that were obvious. Ian rolls his eyes.

“Come on. There must be something you’d want to learn, if you ever found yourself in, let’s say, Mexico,” Ian says.

“Say that again, I’ll shove your dick down your throat?” Mickey replies, looking at Ian expectantly.

“Okay, let me look that up and in the meantime you build a subgroup of words that tie together… somehow,” Ian says, humoring Mickey.

“Whatever you say,” Mickey replies, not really sure this is going to work. But if he comes out of this having at least learned how to tell off a Mexican banger hitman motherfucker, he thinks it’s worth the shot.

When they finally get too tired to continue, Mickey decides it’s about time to go home anyway. He collects his stuff and pushes it into his bag when Ian clears his throat.

“What?” Mickey asks, looking at Ian.

“We haven’t been talking much about… us,” he says hesitantly. Mickey looks away. He doesn’t really have any answers yet. “Do you wanna tell me what you’re worried about?”

There is a lot of things he’s worried about. He honestly can’t highlight just one of them.

“Ian…” He says, sighing, shaking his head.

“We can talk about it,” he replies and talking about things is really not Mickey’s thing. Ian should know this about him by now. “You know I’m still the same old Ian.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, same annoying shit you always have been,” Mickey says amused.

“That coming from you is rich,” Ian replies, looking at him indulgently.

“I’m not worried about shit like that, Ian. I know who you are,” Mickey eventually says.

“Then what are you worried about?” Ian asks and looking at him, Mickey has the feeling it’s killing Ian to keep his distance.

Mickey thinks about this for a while, fiddles around with the shoulder holster of his bag between his legs. He looks over to Ian and eyes the guy. If he has to single in on the thing he is most worried about, he thinks it’s being afraid of where this is going. He has a feeling it’s going to break his last inner defenses to which Mickey is desperately clinging.

He shakes his head in frustration and averts his eyes.

“We’ll figure it out,” Ian simply says. He starts squirming around a little and Mickey gets the feeling there is something else he wants to say.

“What is it?” Mickey asks.

“It’s fine if you still need your space, it’s just we haven’t really been doing our five minutes a day and at some point I need to know how you feel about going back to it again,” Ian says and he seems awfully reluctant talking about it. Mickey furrows his brows confused and watches him. For just a millisecond he sees Ian’s eyes flicker to the dresser and then he finally gets it.

“Oh shit, fuck… Sorry, man,” Mickey says, feeling like an idiot. He immediately reaches over and grabs Ian’s hand, holding it in his. He lets their bond connect and he realizes they must have gone weeks without by now.

Ian just smiles softly and looks at their hands. He glances over to Mickey’s other hand, looks like he’s focused on his FUCK tattoo and then pulls his attention back to the hand in his own with the rest of his tattoo.

“What?” Mickey barks quietly, but Ian is just shaking his head, amused by his own thoughts.

When Mickey prompts him annoyed, it looks like he’s settling on something else to say.

“You ever realize how tiny your hands are?”

Mickey flips him off with his free hand and graciously ignores Ian’s laughter. His other hand never lets go.

LT ->\-- ♡ --<\- LT

Breaking his head over his latest Statistics extra homework, he scratches his temple with his pen in frustration. He’s managed to solve three out of four exercises. At least he thinks he did. But the last one is giving him a headache. Not knowing how to approach the problem, he crosses out his latest failed attempt. Mickey knows he could just do it tomorrow, after all it’s Friday night, but he’s walked Ian to work and went back to the Gallagher’s because he wasn’t in the mood to watch a bunch of queens salivating after Ian’s ass. Bored out of his mind, he settled down on Ian’s bed and pulled out his homework. Since he’s got his Statistics test on Monday, he thought he could kill the time by getting some extra studying in before he has to pick up Ian again. But it seems like he won’t get it no matter how long he’s going to stare at it. With a sigh, he tosses the homework aside and gets out his cigarettes.

He hears music start blaring loudly from downstairs. He considers going down and joining the party currently in session, but he isn’t particularly in the mood at the moment. Not being able to sleep very well he’s been lacking somewhat energy lately. Ian has been offering a few times now that Mickey stay over again, that he could even have the bed and Ian would sleep on the floor, because he’s noticed Mickey being overly tired. He also told him not to accompany him to the club every night he’s working, but Mickey didn’t brook any argument on that topic. Not sleeping in his bed or not sleeping by being out all night doesn’t make a difference to Mickey anyway.

Hearing somebody coming up the stairs, he sees Lip coming to a stop in front of the bedroom.

“Hey, Mickey,” Lip greets and walks into the room. “Ian at work?”

“You see him here?” Mickey retorts and blows out some smoke.

“Right, if he’s not attached to your hip, he either must be taking a shit or he’s at work. And I see the bathroom is empty,” Lip replies.

“Hi-larious,” Mickey merely responds.

“You been studying by yourself?” Lip asks after seeing his homework on the bed. He takes the chair next to the bed and sits down, grabbing it.

“Test on Monday,” he says as a matter of explanation and then puts out his cigarette. He notices the squeals, laughter, and shouting coming from downstairs are getting louder.

Lip looks his answers over, nodding here and there, and then looks to Mickey.

“1 to 3 are correct. That’s great. Trouble with the last one?” He asks and Mickey just nods. “Want me to go over it with you?”

“It’s fucking Friday night. You got no better plans than to help me with my homework?” Mickey asks, snorting.

“I do. Mandy is gonna pick me up in ten, but this shouldn’t take long,” Lip replies easily.

Mickey glares at him. He can’t believe this thing between them is still going on.

“Don’t know what she sees in you,” he grumbles.

“I could say the same about Ian and you. Want me to help you or not, Mickey?” Lip says.

“Fine! Whatever. Tell me already,” Mickey replies annoyed.

“So, the question is whether this particular game model is fair independent of which player starts. You have a set number of rounds with an equal amount of tickets. There are no redraws of the same ticket. Under the assumption that every player draws the exact same number of times as the others and there is only one winning ticket, is this game fair no matter the order of the players?”

“In the beginning it seems so, but the odds are changing when they pass the box,” Mickey says, shrugging.

“You’ve been writing down the chances of each player winning for every round, but what you haven’t been considering are the odds of the players of the previous rounds _not_ winning,” Lip explains.

“I don’t get it,” Mickey replies.

Lip looks at him for a moment and then nods again, apparently thinking of something.

“Ian told me this, that I should break things down so they’re more relatable to you. Okay, imagine this game is a game of Russian Roulette. Don’t think I need to explain to you how Russian Roulette works?” Lip says.

“What do you think?” Mickey replies and nods for him to go on. Now he’s starting to talk his language.

“So, you got six players, six chambers, and one bullet. Which player would you rather be? The one who starts or the one last in the order? Or any in between?” Lip asks.

“The odds of player 1 are 1 in 6. The odds for the last one are 1 in 1,” Mickey says, but feels like something is off with his approach.

“That’s not wrong,” Lip says, nodding patiently. “If you’re the last player and the bullet is still in play, the chances of dying are 100%. But if you’re the last to go, you also had five chances of somebody else getting shot before you, right? So, let’s go through it step by step. You already said player 1’s odds are 1 in 6. Second player’s?”

“1 in 5.”

“Right and it goes on like that. So, now we’re trying to determine if the game is fair. In order to do so, you gotta look at the previous players’ odds of _not_ getting shot. What are the odds of player 1 not getting shot?”

“5 in 6,” Mickey answers.

“Correct. Player 2 has a 5 in 6 chance that player 1 will not get shot and has a chance of 1 in 5 of getting shot themselves. Now multiply that, what do you get?” Lip asks expectantly.

Mickey runs the numbers quickly in his head.

“1 in 6.”

“Do the same for player 3. Only now you multiply player 2’s probability of not getting shot as well,” Lip says and hands him his notepad, so Mickey can write it down.

When Mickey notes down the respective probabilities and multiplies them, he comes up 1/6 again. And when he does it for the rest of the players he gets the same result.

“It’s all 1 in 6,” Mickey says and looks up from his notes. “So the game is fair.”

“Bingo! It all comes down to luck. Gotta hope that fate favors the right lucky son of a bitch,” Lip replies and gets up when they both hear a car honking from outside.

Mickey really doesn’t want to hear the word fate. Fate has a weird obsession with his life lately.

“Thanks,” Mickey says.

“The least I can do, right?” Lip replies amused and Mickey glares at him again.

They hear impatient honking again and Lip says his good-bye and runs out. He looks out the window and sees Lip walking to the curb and lean through the open car window to kiss his sister. Mickey wants to gag. They’re awfully sweet on each other, which Mickey doesn’t get. Helpful or not, Lip is still a douche. Shaking his head, he turns back around to his notes. He applies the same logic of Russian Roulette to his exercise and notes down his solution. After he’s done, he looks at the time and decides he might as well get going already. He doesn’t want to risk Ian getting off work early and head home by himself.

Walking down the stairs to the kitchen, he sees Fiona, V, and Kev dancing happily in the living room. They’re laughing and fooling around. Mickey raises his eyebrows. That’s not normal happy. That’s definitely I’m high as fuck happy. Mickey knows the difference. He looks at the kitchen counter and sees the coke they must have been snorting. He’s never really seen Fiona do hard drugs, but he isn’t overly surprised. She’s been behaving really odd lately. Out of control and bordering on self-destructive. He sees Liam wandering around the kitchen and then looks at Fiona and the others partying in the living room. Lifting Liam up, he makes him stand on a kitchen chair, so they’re closer to eye level.

“You wanna come with me and pick up your brother? Little midnight stroll, see some hookers and heroine junkies?” Mickey asks and Liam nods.

He grins approvingly and then gets his jacket and stuff from the door. Making sure he’s wearing his hat, scarf, and mittens, he bundles him up properly. He helps him down and then takes his hand and walks into the living room with him.

“Mickey!” Fiona squeals happily and starts dancing around him.

Mickey rolls his eyes. That’s why you can never be the only sober one at a party.

“You’re having fun I see,” he says.

She yells in confirmation, V and Kev echoing her behind them.

“Thanks for the present. Found it on the kitchen table this morning,” she says, grinning. She throws her arm around him and kisses him on his cheek.

“Figured out the wrapping had to be from me?” Mickey asks.

“You used newspaper. It had to be either you or Carl. But Carl would never have given up such a fine set of knives,” Fiona replies amused.

“They work on ducks and people,” he says and Fiona grins appreciatively. “Happy birthday, Fiona.”

“Thank you, Mickey! Come dance with us!” She says, taking his arm to pull on it.

“Hard pass. Always hard pass,” he replies. “I’m going out and bringing Liam.”

“Okay!” She simply responds and then hops into the kitchen to start dancing alongside V.

“Try not to OD, will you?” Mickey shouts, rolling his eyes, and then turns around to make his way outside together with Liam.

Liam doesn’t talk much, same as always, and Mickey is a bit too tired to hold one-sided conversations, so they are mostly sitting in silence next to each other on the L. It’s surprising how nobody seems to give a fuck that a toddler is walking down Boystown past midnight. But then again, it’s not like he would give a shit about any other kid either. When Liam tires a bit from all that walking, Mickey picks him up and carries him on his arm. Looking at Liam yawning, Mickey thinks the late hour must be getting to the little fellow. Sure enough Liam falls asleep on his shoulder within minutes.

The bouncer doesn’t let him in with Liam, since apparently seeing a kid while grinding against ass is killing the mood they’re trying to create in there. Grumpily, Mickey walks away. He sees a worthless piece of shit car parked in front of the club and makes his way over. He sits down on the hood of the rusty station wagon and rearranges Liam to sit on his lap. Making sure he’s not cold, he pushes his hat properly down, stuffs Liam’s hands inside his jacket pockets, and then pulls him closer to his chest. Some of the people passing by eye him and Liam a bit curiously, but in all in all nobody really gives a shit.

Being tired himself, he spaces a bit out as he watches the queers going in and out of the place. It’s still an unusual sight to Mickey and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to seeing men openly making out with each other. It’s such a different world to his own. All his life he’s been taught that what these people are is wrong. Shameful. Vile. Abnormal. And that they can’t be tolerated. That being gay meant forfeiting any rights to be accepted in this world. Is enough reason to get killed. It’s still very much ingrained in him. Learning that Ian is gay is challenging all that though. When he looks at him he just sees Ian. Playful, loyal, capable, and a little badass Ian. If he’s not normal, it’s only because he stands out among everyone else. When he looks at him he thinks Ian is the only person worth a shit in this neighborhood. Gay or not, nobody will ever compare to him.

Mickey’s eyes flicker up when he realizes that he’s been staring at a familiar pair of sneakers for a while now. Ian stares at him with a look Mickey can’t parse and steps closer until he’s standing in front of him. Mickey looks up curiously and distractedly pulls Liam closer into himself.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Ian replies softly.

“Ready to go?” Mickey asks.

Ian keeps staring at him. He steps a bit closer.

“I know I said that I would back off, but,” he says and then reaches his hand out to cup Mickey’s cheek. He brushes his thumb softly over his skin and Mickey stares at him puzzled. “You’re taking too long. And I just really, really like you. Ready or not, I’m not gonna stay away anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short, but in turn the next one is going to be really long. As always please leave love!
> 
> For anyone who is interested in the math behind Mickey's homework, here you go:  
> A: 1/6 = 1/6  
> B: 5/6 * 1/5 = 1/6  
> C: 5/6 * 4/5 * 1/4 = 1/6  
> D: 5/6 * 4/5 * 3/4 * 1/3 = 1/6  
> E: 5/6 * 4/5 * 3/4 * 2/3 * 1/2 = 1/6  
> F: 5/6 * 4/5 * 3/4 * 2/3 * 1/2 * 1 = 1/6


	13. Chapter 13

Mickey is so fucking confused and so fucking out of his depth. Ian being gay is one thing, Ian actually saying that he likes him is another. The thought of a guy having feelings for him is triggering his knee-jerk, instinctual reaction of lashing out and putting as much distance as possible between them. The thought of _Ian_ having feelings for him is paralyzing. His instincts are still demanding of him to push Ian away, but he doesn’t really want to. He still doesn’t know what to do about all this. Still doesn’t know how to deal with Ian looking and touching him like that. But Mickey wouldn’t know how to deal with Ian not looking and touching him like that either now. Maybe more so.

In spite of Ian’s declaration he hasn’t been behaving overly different since then. Mainly he thinks it’s because they’ve been going from one test to the next the past ten days and they were focusing on prepping all this time. Ian was especially nervous about today’s Chemistry test, since he tanked the first one. But now that their last test is coming up on Friday and they will head into winter break next week, Mickey is a bit anxious of how things will play out. Might have been a deciding factor why he agreed to go on that run out of state with his dad and his brothers. They’re leaving on Saturday and will probably be gone until Wednesday. While he isn’t particularly looking forward to spend this much time confined with his family, it might give him a bit of breathing room from Ian to get his head straight again.

“How did it go?” Mickey asks when he meets Ian for lunch after the latter just took his test in AP Chemistry.

“I don’t know. I thought I had a good handle on it until the last third. Tough to say,” Ian says and gets in line for the hot dog next to Mickey.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. And if not, I could always intimidate your teacher to pass you. I can do that now again,” Mickey replies and smirks happily. Feels like he’s got his clipped wings back. Crime just runs in his blood.

“Pretty sure you could never do that, but no, thank you,” Ian responds and puts his hand on Mickey’s back to push him further up the line. Mickey eyes the contact, but Ian has already slipped his hand away as if it had been only a simple, innocuous movement in the first place. Now that Mickey has caught up on a few things, he’s starting to recognize some of Ian’s potential advances.

“Don’t start with this shit in public,” Mickey says, dropping his tray on the tray slide and waiting for the line to move up.

“So, you’re saying it’s fine when we’re not in public?” Ian asks, grinning as he looks up to read the overhead menu.

“No, it ain’t fucking fine then either,” Mickey responds annoyed. He gets his hot dog and then moves further ahead.

“I’m not sure I can work with that,” Ian simply says, bumping against him at the condiment bar.

“Cut that shit out, Ian,” Mickey growls angrily, squirting mustard on his hot dog.

“You know, I’m only doing this, because past experience shows you’re too dense to get it otherwise,” Ian replies and holds onto Mickey’s wrist when he is about to move on to pay. He keeps his fingers wrapped around Mickey’s wrist while he’s sprinkling onions on Mickey’s hot dog. “You can’t finish without.”

Mickey eyes him incredulously. He knew it was just a matter of time until Ian would pull his shit again. He knew it! It’s as if the guy was just waiting out his Chemistry test, but now that he’s done with that, he’s on Mickey again.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Mickey says. Speechless, he moves to the register. Shaking his head, he gets a coke and puts it onto his tray.

“Cookie?” Ian asks and takes one from the sweets rack, holding it up, smirking playfully.

Mickey finally has confirmation that the bastard did that whole cookie show on purpose. It was one of the things that had popped up in his mind when he was going through Ian’s behavior, trying to make sense of them after finding out Ian was into him. He glares at him now.

“4.65,” the cashier states and Mickey reaches for his wallet.

“Add it to mine, please,” Ian says overly friendly and hands the guy a ten dollar bill. He turns around to Mickey and winks at him.

“What are you doing?” Mickey grumbles annoyed under his breath when they make their way to an empty spot at the far row of tables.

“Inviting you to lunch,” Ian simply replies and sits down in front of him. “Speaking of which, we’re going out on Friday. Dinner, you and me. I got somebody to cover my shift.”

“Where are we going?” Mickey asks, starting on his hot dog. School cafeteria or not, can’t do much wrong with hot dogs. This one’s pretty good. He licks the corner of his mouth with a content hum. Munching, he looks up to Ian who has apparently been watching him. With an amused smile Ian bites into his own hot dog.

“I thought Sizzlers,” Ian answers.

Why would they go all the way out to eat at a restaurant when they have food at home? Fiona hasn’t been cooking much lately, but someone usually still prepares something. Somebody got to feed Liam after all. And why an actual restaurant? They got real cutlery and shit. It seems weirdly formal. He snaps his head to Ian and narrows his eyes.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Ian asks innocently.

“Why the fuck do you wanna go out to a real restaurant?” Mickey demands to know and watches how Ian’s lips twitch into a faint smile.

“We’ll be done with our last tests on Friday, I finally make some money again, we should go out and have some fun,” Ian lays out easily.

“Uh-huh, sure that’s the only reason?” Mickey asks, narrowing his eyes, not buying it.

“Just inviting you to dinner, Mick,” Ian says between bites.

“I’m not going on a…” Mickey starts, looks around, and then continues, hissing quietly. “Date with you!”

“It’s free steak, any dessert you want… I’m paying,” Ian replies casually. Chewing unperturbed, he looks at him loose and relaxed.

“You are out of your mind, if you think I would agree to this! Stop coming on to me! I’m not like… you,” he whispers emphatically.

Ian gives him a look and then puts his remaining hot dog down. He grabs Mickey’s coke, opens the can, and takes a sip. Mickey narrows his eyes at the action.

“It’s just eating together. We do it everyday. We’re doing it right now. Don’t be a pussy and relax. I’m not going to just pounce on you,” Ian says, but then adds with a smirk. “Though if you happen to change your mind over the course of the night, I can always be persuaded.”

“ _That’s_ why I’m not going with you! You keep saying shit like that! I’m not your fucking girlfriend,” Mickey retorts aggravated and stuffs a large chunk of his hot dog in his mouth, pointedly trying to keep himself from imagining taking Ian up on his offer. The mention alone had his neck heat.

“You don’t happen to be a virgin, right?” Ian asks casually.

Mickey chokes. Ian hands him his coke, watching him trying to finish the bite in his mouth without dying.

“No, I’m not a fucking virgin!” He says, looking around them, if somebody is listening in on their conversation.

“It’s grabbing a bite to eat. Didn’t think persuading you to have free steak would be this hard,” Ian replies and finishes his hot dog.

“Fine! But if you touch me once, I will break every knuckle on your hand. All fifteen of them,” Mickey says.

Ian looks at him as if he wants to say something, but seems to decide not to in the end. Instead he grins self-satisfied and nods to Mickey’s hot dog, prompting him to continue eating.

“Can’t wait,” he says, still grinning and Mickey is already regretting agreeing to this.

LT ->\- ♡ -<\- LT

Friday night comes far too quickly and Mickey begrudgingly makes his way to the Gallagher’s after Physics. His test went okay he thinks. A lot of the questions were similar to previous homework they did. He assumes he did fine on the calculations. Just the stuff where he had to spell out theories, where he’s sure it was expected of him to know the right terms he didn’t do so well. Looking at the Gallagher house, he sighs. He’d much rather still take his test than go out on that _just-grabbing-a-bite_ thing with Ian. He tried to weasel his way out of it a couple of times, but Ian hasn’t let him off the hook. Mickey knows this dinner thing is just the latest of Ian’s come-ons, but no matter how much Mickey tries to get Ian to back off, the guy keeps at it. Although he might be able to admit, to himself, that he didn’t put up as much resistance as he should have. It’s just when Ian gives him that expectant look, or those hopeful eyes, or that playful smirk, or calls his name ever so softly… it does something to him. Walls crumble down and lives are lost. Or at least it’s his resistance that falls to pieces. Mickey has become so weak. He is Mickey fucking Milkovich. People cower under his stare and run away scared from his threats. He’s going to nut up and get this shit over with. After he’s had a cigarette…

He smokes three cigarettes in total before he eventually psychs himself up to head inside. When he enters, Carl comes his way with a shaved head and two big bags.

“The fuck did you do with your hair?” Mickey asks incredulously.

Carl sighs dejectedly and looks at him.

“If we never see each other again, thanks for all the shit you’ve done for me and taught me,” Carl says, sounding really down. He holds out his fist to him.

“Where are you going?” Mickey asks bewildered and reflexively bumps fists with Carl.

“Camp,” he says.

“Camp? What are you going to camp for?”

Mickey looks at his despondent expression, wondering what’s up with him.

“Trying to get better,” he answers and after looking out the window, he pulls the bags up higher on his shoulders. “I need to go. Take care of the family.”

“If you say so,” Mickey mutters confused and watches him leave.

Whatever is going on Mickey doesn’t think he wants to know. He throws his backpack to the side just as Ian comes hopping down the stairs. Mickey does a double take as he looks him over. Ian is wearing an olive green button-down, with the shirt wrapping tight around the guy’s biceps, the sleeves rolled back to his elbows and the collar casually standing open to the side, giving him this easy, loose look. He’s wearing tight dark blue jeans and he’s pretty sure those are Ian’s favorite, I-only-wear-them-on-special-occasions sneakers. At the back of his mind he wonders why he even knows that sort of shit. He’s got his hair slicked back and apparently he went and got himself an undercut while Mickey was still in class.

“Hey,” Ian greets easily and it takes a moment for Mickey to focus.

“The fuck are you wearing?” He finally responds.

“What? You don’t like it?” Ian asks and stops in front of Mickey, eyeing himself.

The fresh scent of soap and, what Mickey is certain is, cologne is wafting over to him.

“You showered! You’re wearing frigging cologne!” Mickey accuses aggravated.

“Yes, so?” Ian asks, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

This is a date after all, Mickey thinks indignantly. Ian is not even trying to be subtle.

“I’m not going out with you looking like this,” Mickey says, vehemently shaking his head. Ian rolls his eyes.

“It’s not the Four Seasons, but I’m not going there wearing sweatpants,” Ian says and gets his jacket from the kitchen door.

Looking after him, Mickey can’t fail to notice how those jeans are hugging his ass way too tight. Mickey shakes his head incredulously. This is starting off worse than he imagined.

“Okay, I’m only saying this once and now it’s your time to get it through your thick skull! This is not a fucking date. We’re not fucking boyfriend and boyfriend. And whatever your fucking plan here is, you better strike that out of your head quickly or I will deck you!” Mickey threatens emphatically.

Ian looks at him as if he’s indulging Mickey’s mood and casually comes to a stop in front of him again.

“It’s just dinner, Mickey. I promise I will be a perfect gentleman,” he says and raises his hands in defense. When Mickey doesn’t further complain, even if he more than wants to, Ian puts his hands down again and starts walking ahead, quietly adding something. “Tonight.”

“I fucking heard that!” Mickey bellows after him.

They take the L downtown and Ian doesn’t seem to once get discouraged by Mickey’s disgruntled mood. He does keep a reasonable distance and at first it felt like a false sense of security, making Mickey be on guard the entire time. But the train once takes a rough curve and when Mickey’s casual stance has him fall forward, Ian actually moves away and lets him bump against the partition. Ian just raises his hands up in explanation and smiles amused. Ian figures he’s so funny at times, Mickey thinks with clenched teeth.

When they enter the restaurant, an older lady shows them to their table further back away from the windows which eases some of Mickey’s nerves. He doesn’t think anybody he knows would stroll around this part of town, but he can’t be too careful about being possibly seen with Ian on, whether he denies it or not, what looks like a dinner date.

“You actually made a reservation?” Mickey asks, eyebrow raised.

“Of course I did,” Ian merely responds and takes a look at the menu.

“Of course…” Mickey mutters.

Looking at the choices, he thinks if he has to suffer through this, he’ll at least get the biggest steak they have. Ian said he’ll pay.

“You look nice,” Ian says with a small smile while they’re waiting for their food to come.

“I’m wearing the same shit since seven in the morning. You’ve _seen_ me wearing this the whole day,” Mickey replies, raising his eyebrow dubiously. He wonders in which magazine he read this basic pick-up line.

“Still look nice,” Ian says. He stares at Ian unimpressed.

When their drinks arrive, he wishes they could have gone somewhere he could actually get some booze into him. No place like this would serve them alcohol. Slurping on his ice tea, he looks at Ian, taking him in again. The asshole really looks good. That new haircut is fucking hot. When he catches himself also thinking that he likes the way Ian’s arms look in the shirt, he downs half of the drink at once.

“That’s not a Long Island ice tea,” Ian points out amused.

“I’m pretending it is,” Mickey retorts, looking everywhere but at Ian.

“This isn’t a date, remember? No reason to be nervous,” Ian says and Mickey just gives him one of his patented _don’t-be-a-little-shit_ look. Ian laughs a little and stares at him amused. Mickey sighs quietly. He obviously isn’t getting anywhere with Ian when he’s in this mood. He brushes his hand over his face, feeling the ever present tiredness in his sore body. “You’re still not sleeping, are you?”

Ian looks at him concerned now.

“I’m sleeping just fine,” Mickey lies and takes another sip from his ice tea.

“Will you ever be able to tell me what happened on Christmas?” Ian asks.

Mickey feels himself tensing up. Annoyed with himself, he tries to consciously relax his muscles. It’s been over two months and for some stupid reason, he’s still feeling the tightness around his chest whenever he thinks about it. He’s being pathetic. Everything has been fine with Terry ever since that night. He should be relieved to have him off his back simply by having beaten a random guy off the streets. And yet he has trouble sleeping in his own bed at his own house. It was fine when he was staying over at Ian’s for a while, but ever since Ian has come out to him, he’s been staying at his place mostly. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep for weeks now. He looks up at Ian and thinks about Boystown. Remembers how he beat that hooker up for being gay. Worries about how Ian is gay too and that he works only a couple streets from that alley at a queer club. Imagines what Terry would do if he found out about Ian. He pulls on his collar and finishes the last of his drink.

“I read that it would help, if you talked about it with somebody you trust. I could start by asking you some easy questions and we can work ourselves up to it? Just like we did with me,” Ian says carefully and watches his reaction. Mickey wonders what the hell Ian was reading and why he even felt the need to do so. He is fine. There is nothing wrong with him.

Not liking the idea of talking about this, he reaches for his glass again only to notice it’s still empty. Ian easily switches their glasses and now Mickey has a full drink again. Looking at the glass, to Ian, and then back again, he calms a bit at the simple gesture. He swallows a couple of sips and then sets it down.

“Were you actually planning on coming over on Christmas?” Ian asks.

Looking at him, he guesses they’re doing this now.

“I was on my way over,” Mickey replies, averting his gaze to the cutlery in front of him.

“How far did you get?”

“Five minutes from your place.”

“Then… you met somebody?” Ian guesses and Mickey nods. “Terry?”

He struggles with himself and only ends up taking another sip from his drink. Ian nods simply for him. He visibly ponders what to ask next.

“He didn’t attack you like last time,” Ian says and it’s not a question. Mickey wasn’t injured beyond the bruised knuckles he had. “You didn’t beat him though, right?”

“No,” Mickey replies, huffing.

“Somebody else then?” Ian asks and Mickey can feel his eyes on him.

“Yeah…”

“Somebody you knew?” Ian continues. Mickey shakes his head and that seems to surprise Ian. “Who was it?”

Mickey bites his lip and doesn’t say anything.

When Ian wants to follow up, the waiter comes over and brings them their food, effectively putting a stop to the topic. Mickey quietly takes his fork and knife and starts cutting into his steak. Ian doesn’t move to start eating. Mickey doesn’t know what he’s thinking and neither looks up to see if he can parse the silence. When he takes his second bite, he feels Ian’s leg resting against his under the table. His hand stops midway down.

“No touching,” he mutters and then cuts into his steak again.

He feels Ian’s other leg hooking around from the other side and he finally looks up at him annoyed.

“This is different. It’s my five minutes a day,” Ian says.

That doesn’t even make the slightest sense. The guy is not even trying anymore.

“You’re a little shit, you know that?” Mickey says, glaring at him.

Ian gives him a small smile and starts on his own steak. He doesn’t move away, simply leaves his legs wrapped around Mickey’s left calf. Exhaling frustrated through his nose, Mickey watches him eat as if nothing were going on.

Mickey doesn’t pull away though.

Weirdly enough, Mickey’s earlier tension concerning this non-date dissipates after this. They make easy conversation about how their tests went and about Mickey going on that run with his family tomorrow. They talk about Ian’s siblings. About Lip getting better after having started dating Mandy, about Fiona getting worse and having started to go on drug benders, about Carl’s impromptu camp stay nobody seems to know anything about… They talk about how they both haven’t had steak in years and how fucking good the ones are they’ve ordered. Ian tells him with a bright smile how he wants to come here again with him soon and Mickey can only roll his eyes. And when Ian orders vanilla ice cream and jokingly offers to share it with Mickey, the latter threatens to punch his teeth out, if he even so much as asks for two spoons. As promised Ian pays at the end and Mickey is loose enough to make a joke about not putting out for him even if he paid.

The train they’re on lets them out two stops earlier because of a malfunction and they both decide to just walk the rest of the way home. It’s a comfortable quiet between them for a few minutes as they walk side by side down the streets of South Side. Mickey glances a few times over to Ian, wondering what he’s thinking. When Ian catches him look at one point, he seems to snap out of whatever inner monologue he had.

“I’m not sure I like you thinking too much,” Mickey says and huffs as he looks up ahead.

“Do you think there is a higher reason as to why we’re, you know, soulmates?” Ian asks.

“That’s exactly why I don’t want you thinking too much. You over-analyze stupid shit,” Mickey replies.

“You know, all this time I thought so, but,” Ian says and then stares down at the ground. “Now I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Okay,” Mickey replies and humors him by making it clear he’s listening.

“Kala died,” Ian says, burrowing his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Indian whacko’s fiance?”

“Yeah, she passed away a few days ago,” Ian relays. “If she was destined to be one of so few people to have a soulmate, why would she just die without getting better, without anything significant happening? Her condition didn’t change from the day of the blackout until the day she passed. Nothing happened. Why would fate choose her and Rajan to connect, if they were never supposed to stay together? I don’t understand.”

“It’s your fault for thinking there is such a thing as fucking fate. It doesn’t make sense to you, because there is no sense to be made,” Mickey says, rounding the corner to the next street together with Ian.

“Really? You believe there is no greater meaning to us being soulmates? That it’s just coincidence that we connected with each other?” Ian asks, looking at him as if earnestly searching for an explanation in Mickey’s answer.

“The hell do I know, Ian,” Mickey says and when Ian looks away disappointedly, visibly pondering over this, he continues. “Doesn’t soulmates just say we’re cut from the same root? Like when we do our shit, it just always feels like that, or not? It’s never really you and then me. It’s always… _you and me_ ,” Mickey tries to explain and then scoffs at his own stupid interpretation. “What I’m saying is, I don’t really think we were ever _chosen_ to connect or some shit like that. We just happen to be the way we are. Fate can go suck my balls.”

Ian looks at him in surprise and doesn’t seem to know how to respond for a moment. Mickey averts his eyes and just keeps walking, ignoring him. He hates talking about this soulmate shit.

“But then why the blackout? There must be a reason behind it, right? Why we can suddenly feel what we feel and do what we do?” Ian asks breathlessly.

“Why does anything ever happen? Why did we get fucking hipsters, vegans, global warming…? Shit happens all the time,” Mickey retorts and lights himself a cigarette.

“So, something that fundamentally changes our pre-existing definition of the limits of human nature has no greater significant meaning at all?” Ian asks, not understanding.

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. What does it matter? We still need to live our lives. Destined life or not,” Mickey replies, exhaling smoke and shrugging at the same time.

“I just wish I’d know that things matter. That what we do matters. Rajan magically got to be with Kala again and then Kala just died. Kinda pointless don’t you think?” Ian says with a sigh.

Mickey eyes him from the side, sees his dejected expression. He steps closer and passes him his smoke.

“Wouldn’t she have died anyway?” Mickey starts and Ian looks at him confused as he’s taking a drag from the cigarette. “Something Principal Allen once said to me… You might end up at the same shit place, but the outcome might be completely different depending on what decisions we made.”

He sighs annoyed. Not like he ever really understood what nonsense Principal Allen had spouted.

“What does that mean?” Ian asks.

“Fuck do I know… But if you think about it, wasn’t Indian whacko happier in the end? No greater meaning to their lives, but they were happier for it, right? She would have died anyway. At least they got to spend their remaining time together. Doesn’t shit like that count for something?”

Ian comes to a stop and stares at Mickey. Mickey eyes him, feeling self-conscious at the way he’s being looked at.

“You know, I always thought this, but you’re surprisingly intuitive about this whole thing,” Ian says.

Dubiously looking at Ian, Mickey takes the cigarette back Ian holds out to him.

“I really couldn’t give a fuck about all this. My life is a never ending shitshow. I don’t need to think about this to make my life needlessly more complicated like you. I just know, you and I, we ended up together in some stupid study program and now we’re here. Greater reason or not – does it fucking matter?”

Thinking about it, Ian keeps looking at him, until the corners of his lips rise into a small smile.

“I guess not,” he says. He steps closer and looks at him, still smiling. “But for the record, I’m really glad that we ended up here.”

“Don’t start again,” Mickey says, sighing annoyed. Turning back around, he snips the cigarette butt away and continues walking home.

“I never stopped,” Ian replies and catches up to him, grinning like an idiot in Mickey’s opinion.

“You’re insufferable, obnoxious, and annoying,” Mickey says.

“Are you secretly studying for the SATs?” Ian replies, laughing at Mickey’s choice of words. “We could go to college together! What do you say?”

Mickey snorts and laughs, turning around to Ian.

“Easy, tiger. High school is one thing, but I ain’t fucking going to college. Don’t go picking out the drapes for our dorm room already in that daydreaming head of yours,” Mickey says and eyes him pointedly.

Ian rolls his eyes up, obviously imagining it now. He doesn’t stop grinning. Fed up with the guy, Mickey pushes him straight instead of turning at the intersection.

“Why do you always do that?” Ian asks him.

“Do what?”

“Whenever we walk this way after work, you insist on taking this detour. It makes more sense, if we walked that way, but you always make sure we take this route. Why?” Ian asks, looking between the two streets.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickey deflects and avoids looking at Ian.

“Yes, you do. Mickey, I know you live down that street. You’re obviously avoiding bringing me to your house. Whenever I brought up coming by your place, you would always be close to freaking out,” Ian replies knowingly.

“Not a good neighborhood, that’s it,” Mickey says, shrugging.

“It’s your neighborhood,” Ian points out.

“Exactly.”

“Mickey, what’s really going on?” Ian asks and steps in front of him. Flashes of memories flit through his mind. Images of Matt lying bloodied on the road.

“There isn’t always a deeper meaning to things, Ian. I want to walk this way and last time I checked I’m a free American who can do whatever he pleases,” Mickey simply says.

“Sure, but I’m still calling bullshit,” Ian replies, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Are you, like, afraid your family will think we’re together? Is that it?”

“Shut it, would you?” Mickey says as he looks around if somebody is close by to overhear them.

“You know, at some point you will need to face these things. You can’t keep living like this,” Ian says and follows Mickey who has upped his pace.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickey retorts, not looking at him.

“I get your dad is a nightmare, but you can’t live like this… Lying to everyone, lying to yourself,” Ian states.

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickey replies, biting the corner of his lips. He’s still studiously walking ahead without looking at Ian.

“You’re so deep in denial, that you yourself actually believe what you’re telling everyone else,” Ian says, easily keeping up with Mickey’s stride.

“And that would be fucking what?” Mickey asks annoyed.

“That you’re not into guys.”

Mickey stops abruptly and stares at Ian.

“What did you fucking say?” Mickey asks, feeling his heart beating a mile a minute.

Ian comes to a stop as well and sighs slightly. Turning toward Mickey, he pointedly looks at him.

“You’re into guys,” Ian says. “More importantly, you’re into me.”

Mickey huffs unbelievable and shoves him away.

“Say that again and I’m gonna kick your fucking ass.”

“Stop, Mickey. Stop living in denial. I know, okay? I’ve known for a long time,” Ian says in frustration.

“You know nothing. Stop projecting your gay shit on me!” Mickey barks, breathing deeply through his nose.

“You’re afraid of your dad finding out. That was the whole reason why you joined the study program. Somehow Principal Allen knew and threatened to tell Terry, right?” Ian asks, moving forward. Mickey vehemently shakes his head and backs off with every step Ian takes closer to him. “You said your dad would kill you, if he found out. There are only three kinds of people your dad hates to the core, remember? You told me that. Cops, anyone who isn’t white, and gays. You’re not a cop, you’re as pasty white as they come… There is only one thing left on that list-”

“Stop! Just shut the fuck up!” Mickey says and clenches his teeth.

This isn’t happening again. Mickey isn’t going through this again. He steps back once more and ends up bumping against a fence. He looks behind him at the dark house. Looks at the poorly lit and empty street to the left and right to them and then snaps his head toward Ian, when the latter steps closer.

“Stop pretending, Mickey,” he says softly. Ian’s piercing eyes are impossible to look away from and Mickey swallows. He watches as Ian slowly approaches and it makes him ball up his hands.

“Don’t touch me,” Mickey warns angrily.

Eyeing Mickey’s ready fists, Ian holds his hands up much like he had earlier at home.

“I promised,” Ian simply says, but takes another step toward Mickey and is now standing right in front of him. He puts his hands in his jacket pockets and leans closer until they’re face to face. “Stop pretending. I see how you look at me. I see how you care for me, Mickey.”

“Stop,” Mickey says, squeezing his eyes close. He notices Ian shifting slightly and then feels his warm breath at his ear.

“You have feelings for me,” he says, confident. Mickey breathes angrily, but when he doesn’t say anything, Ian continues. “I know you want to be with me. I know what you feel with me. You can’t fake that.”

Ian takes a step away and looks Mickey in the eyes, waiting for him to respond. When Mickey keeps quiet and eventually averts his eyes to the ground, biting his lip, Ian backs off and steps further away. Finally having the space back to breathe, Mickey hesitantly looks up at Ian. The confidence from a minute ago is gone and in its place Mickey sees resignation. Hurt. Taking a moment, Ian aimlessly looks around and then nods down the street.

“I guess I see you,” Ian says, taking a step in direction to his house. He stops one more time and turns to Mickey. “Be safe on your run. Good night, Mickey.”

LT ->\- ♡ -<\- LT

Reading the entry sign to Illinois when they cross the state border, Mickey finds he’s more relieved than anxious to be back. Leaning against the window, he watches with hooded eyes how Iggy navigates them through the Interstate traffic. They have some rock station on, the music almost drowned by Colin crunching through a bag of chips next to him and Terry snoring loudly from the front passenger seat. The weather is nice enough with the sun shining in Mickey’s face and slightly warming his skin. It’s comfortable and Mickey wishes he could just fall asleep like this. Their deliveries went over without a hitch. They managed to stay under the cops’ radar and they even made some extra cash on an impromptu side hustle two states over. Overall Terry was satisfied. They knocked down a few shots yesterday afternoon after their last job was over with Terry even snorting some blow. The atmosphere was upbeat and everyone was getting along. It reminded Mickey of the old times when they used to constantly go on jobs together. Back then when his whole life still revolved solely around the Milkovich family. A time during which he tirelessly tried to prove himself to Terry. To live up to his expectations. A time when he still wanted to live up to his expectations. When he only started to realize something felt off here and there. When he started to notice he was laughing at something or agreeing to something more out of reflex. All the while feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. When he started to instinctively be on guard even if he didn’t know why yet. Unconsciously seeking out just a little distance at times while at the same time wishing to bridge that gap. Wanting to feel normal again. A time when he desperately tried to compensate for something he hadn’t even identified yet. Something he only instinctively knew felt off about himself. When he started to hide things. When he started to be careful. When he started to pretend… And now it looks like he never stopped pretending.

His eyes are burning. His body is weak. His head feels wrong. He is so fucking tired. All the nights they spent at all sorts of run-down motels, he didn’t sleep a wink. They mostly shared a room together the four of them. Once Iggy took a double with Terry while Colin and he slept outside in the car. Ironically, it was the only night he came close to a couple of hours of shuteye. Mickey not sleeping doesn’t go unnoticed in the sense that he obviously looks like crap and is barely able to concentrate. Terry has made a few remarks that Mickey needs to pull it together, wondering what the hell is up with him. Iggy keeps shooting him looks, took over most of the work when they did their deliveries together, and Mickey doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that Iggy keeps complaining about Mickey’s driving, refusing to let him take over. Mickey is pretty certain he won’t be able to go one more night without sleep. It’s a mystery to him how he hasn’t passed out yet. He can’t wait to be back in Chicago, shower the motel filth off him, and collapse onto his bed.

They make it back around lunch time and Colin beats him to the bathroom, saying he is about to head over to his girlfriend and needs to wash his dick. If Mickey had any energy, he would have fought him for first shower. He considers to just lie down anyway and wash the days of being on the road off later, but when he looks at his bed, he comes to the depressing realization that he won’t be getting sleep anyway. It just won’t happen, he already knows. Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, he sighs. Letting his arms fall to his sides, he looks around the house. He sees Terry having already passed out on the living room couch. Sees the door to Iggy’s room closed too. He turns to his own room.

Looking at his life compressed to these four walls, he realizes he doesn’t want to be here. This hasn’t been his home for months now. Every night he lied awake in that bed, staring at the ceiling, he pretended it was.

Grabbing his bag, he unceremoniously dumps his dirty clothes and then moves to his dresser, stuffing it with fresh clothes instead. Opening his stereo, he takes his remaining cash and then grabs his school backpack and with one last look he splits.

When he arrives in front of the Gallagher house, he looks up to Ian’s room. He’s still nowhere closer to figuring out the situation in which they’ve ended up. He doesn’t even know if Ian wants to see him. But somehow, without any sensible reason he can lay out, he believes it will be fine. He doesn’t have a clue about anything, he doesn’t have any answers, he doesn’t know what to do, but what he does know is that he belongs here. Mickey is not much of a thinker. He’s just going to go where it feels right.

Climbing the porch steps, he reaches for the door knob and pushes against the door only to realize it’s locked. It catches him a bit off-guard. Not once since he started coming over to the Gallagher’s has this door ever been closed. He huffs, brushing a hand over his face. Now that he made up his mind to stay with the Gallagher’s, the door has literally been closed on him. His legs twitch backward, about to leave, when he realizes something. He reaches for his wallet, opens the coin pouch, and pulls out the copy of Ian’s key hanging off the little whiskey and orange key chains. It feels a bit weird thinking about letting himself in without the Gallaghers there, but when he really considers it the only reason he would ever need the key would be when nobody is home. So he supposes Ian had given him a key for the sole purpose of letting himself in when he actually happens to be out.

Sliding the key in, he doesn’t know what he thought would happen, but the door opens readily and he steps inside. Looking at the mess that is the living room, he walks past the couch and enters the kitchen. Somebody had cooked lunch and had left the remaining food inside the pan on the stove. He snatches a chicken strip, and throws it into his mouth, and then walks upstairs. He drops his bag in Ian’s room, throws his key on the dresser, and makes his way to the bathroom. Taking a quick shower, he rinses off the last couple of days under the shitty water pressure. He brushes his teeth with the spare toothbrush Ian had given him and always kept next to his in the cup. When he makes his way to the bedroom, he quickly pulls on a change of clothes and then looks at Ian’s unmade bed longingly. He lets himself crash onto the bed and wiggles himself higher up, burrowing his head into the mattress. The shitty linens feel like heaven and he squeezes his eyes shut for one moment to breathe in deeply. It smells like Ian. The same way he knew looking at his own bed he wouldn’t get any sleep, he now knows that he will fall asleep in minutes. Exhaling, he slowly opens his eyes and sees Ian’s hoodie in front of him he must have haphazardly thrown onto the bed earlier. Without conscious thought he reaches for it, pulling it closer. His nose brushes against the fabric and he lets the familiar scent settle around him. He feels his eyes droop close and in the seconds before he falls asleep he relishes the feeling of his exhausted body relaxing.

LT ->\- ♡ -<\- LT

Feeling something warm and soft brushing through his hair, Mickey hums contently. The familiar sensation of subtle tingling trickles along his scalp. He can feel something moving along his temple and he breathes in deeply. Everything feels warm and comfortable. He feels relaxed. Leaning into the gentle caress, he exhales. Slowly opening his eyes, he sees he’s lying on the dark red hoodie, distantly remembering it having been on the bed when he fell asleep. When he realizes something brushing along the side of his head, he blinks, tearing his eyes away from the hoodie. Pretty green eyes meet his and it takes him a moment to notice that Ian is sitting on the bed next to him. Dazed, he looks at the familiar face. Sees Ian looking at him quietly. He still feels the brush of what he now knows is Ian’s thumb caressing his temple.

In that moment it feels like the world outside of this room doesn’t exist. Or if time just froze into place. The way Ian is looking at him and the way his touch lingers… Nothing else seems to matter. There is no other thought than Ian in that moment. The way his skin feels against his. The soft touch meant for him. The warmth he exudes. The pleasant smell permeating around him. The eyes that watch him softly. He sees the many freckles standing out on Ian’s face in the bright daylight. Ian’s fair eyelashes flutter subtly. A strand of pretty red hair falls over his forehead. And when he meets his eyes again, the only thing he sees is somebody who looks at him the way nobody ever has. It’s so heavy, Mickey doesn’t know how to bear that look and at the same time it makes him feel so warm, he wants to lose himself in it.

Ian’s eyes flutter and he moves closer. Mickey sees him swallow and part his lips slightly. And when he’s right in front of him, he sees him staring into his eyes. Feels his warm breath hitting his lips. Feels the fingers buried in his hair taking hold of his head. And then he feels Ian’s lips press against his, warm and soft. It’s tentative; has just a slight pressure to it. The subtle tingling sensation their bond creates makes him shiver. Ian’s lips let up only to slot between his and then he presses their lips together again. His mouth opens ever so slightly and Mickey feels his breath warmly hit against his lips and suddenly Ian is back to slotting Mickey’s lower lip between his, pressing against it. Mickey stutters out a breath. And the next time Ian presses his mouth to Mickey’s, Mickey holds against him and pushes upward. Suddenly, the fingers in his hair tighten and Ian lets out this tiny, involuntary sound. Pushing closer, the pressure of Ian’s lips on his intensifies. Mickey moves along Ian’s rhythm, meeting his lips halfway, holding against him, following him. The bond spikes subtly from his side and Ian makes this sound in his throat and breathes deeply before pressing closer. Their noses softly brush against each other with the movement. Mickey feels Ian’s other hand slide along his cheek, gently settling into place, cupping the other side of his face. The bond trickles in a gentle, excited wave every place skin meets skin, almost languidly dancing along their motions. Ian’s lip catches on his when he takes a moment to breathe him in and Mickey chases him, impatiently seeking him out again. And Ian easily gives in, letting Mickey take control. Their lips continuously press against each other, slotting right into place every time they meet again, until Mickey feels Ian’s teeth softly pulling on his lower lip. A sound escapes him and Ian does it again. Mickey’s hand wraps reflexively around Ian’s upper arm, pulling him closer and Ian follows his cue and pushes forward. Mickey’s head moves up with the motion and Ian tightens his grip on him. He basically breathes Ian in when he stutters to inhale. Ian pulls Mickey’s lower lip between his, presses against it before letting go, and then suddenly Mickey feels his tongue licking against his lip. A shiver runs up his body. The motion is hesitant, almost as if waiting out his reaction, and it finally makes Mickey snap out of the daze he’s been in all this time.

He opens his eyes and pulls away. Ian’s eyes flicker open as well and they look at each other. Mickey lets out a shaky breath and he sees Ian swallow tightly. They’re still so close they are practically breathing each other in. Fuck, Mickey thinks. He swallows at the close proximity. At how close Ian’s lips are still to his. Ian’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment as he rests his forehead against Mickey’s.

“Mickey…” He breathes.

Mickey squeezes his own eyes close, shaking his head slightly, biting at his lip. He scrambles away. The sudden loss of contact feels almost like a bucket of cold water, bringing him back to the here and now. He tries to get his breath back. Still feels the heat along his neck and cheeks. Pressing against the wall behind him, he stares at Ian.

They just kissed. Ian kissed him and Mickey let him.

“What are you doing here?” Mickey exhales shakily.

Ian tilts his head slightly and looks at him, blinking a few times.

“You’re the one in my bed,” Ian points out.

Mickey looks around the room. It’s empty except for the two of them. It’s still bright outside and he thinks he must have slept through the early afternoon. It’s quiet in the house. As quiet as it had been when he came over. He turns his eyes back to Ian. Ian’s cheeks are a bit pink. His lips are vibrant, slightly glistening. And when he recalls why, he rubs his face against his hands.

“Fuck…” He mutters.

“Mickey,” Ian says, looking at him nervously.

“No, this wasn’t- We didn’t-” Mickey responds, struggling for words.

“Don’t freak out,” Ian says, but Mickey just pushes past him, out of bed and into the middle of the room, pacing around.

Biting his lip, he shakes his head, anxiously fiddling with his fingers.

“Mickey,” Ian calls out to him insistently and Mickey snaps his head to Ian.

He slowly gets up and moves over to him. When Ian lifts his hand, reaching for Mickey’s face, Mickey jerks his head away. His eyes flicker around nervously, hesitantly looking back up to Ian. Ian stares at him calmly, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. Slowly, Ian steps a bit closer and Mickey watches him, breathing through his nose nervously. Tentatively, Ian reaches out and holds onto the hem of Mickey’s shirt. He steps closer again until they are standing flush against each other. Front to front, Ian slightly looking down to him. Ian’s hand on Mickey’s shirt slides onto his hip, resting there without pressure. Mickey can’t look away from Ian’s gaze and he licks his lips absentmindedly. Ian’s eyes flicker subtly and then Ian’s hand cups the side of Mickey’s face, his thumb brushing softly back and forth. The bond settles like a blanket between them immediately as if they never disconnected in the first place. It’s impossible not to get lost in this feeling. Swallowing, Mickey feels his heart beat painfully in his chest as he keeps looking into Ian’s eyes. Slowly, Ian inches closer until Mickey can feel Ian’s breath hit his lips.

“Don’t be afraid to kiss me,” he whispers.

Their lips meet feather-light and Mickey feels like he can’t breathe. The air is stuck in his lungs. It feels like this moment is a point of no return. He’s frozen to the spot, unable to move under Ian’s soft grip. And then, as if time slowed down, he sees Ian’s head tilt slightly. His eyes flicker one more time before closing and then Ian presses closer. Mickey lets his own eyes flutter shut and without conscious thought he lets himself sink into the moment.

The chiming of a cell phone can be heard cutting through the electrified tension of the room. It’s Mickey’s, coming from his jacket on the chair. Mickey feels Ian’s angry exhale on his lips. Sees the tightness to his closed eyes and how his eyebrows are furrowing in annoyance. Mickey slips out of Ian’s hold and shuffles over to get his cell phone. He feels wired and his heart is still trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he looks at the caller ID and furrows his brows. He accepts the call while glancing over to Ian, seeing him irritably staring at the ceiling.

“Mickey…?” He hears a muffled, familiar voice say.

“Scott?”

When Mickey saw the name on the caller ID, he couldn’t believe it would really be Scott. He hasn’t seen him ever since the day in the guidance counselor's office. Ian throws him a curious look after hearing the name, but Mickey just turns away from him to listen to the other end of the call. It’s quiet for a moment until Scott answers.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he says.

His voice sounds off, weak and subdued. While Mickey never knew him to be a particular energetic person, he still sounds strange to him.

“What do you want?” Mickey asks as he looks at the rumpled sheets and tries not to think about what just happened.

“I don’t know what to do…” Scott says quietly. “I found my old burner phone in my stuff down here… Yours was the only number on it…”

“Where are you?” Mickey asks confused. The last thing he knew is that Scott was on a special exchange program, that he hadn’t even been in Chicago anymore.

“Basement.”

“As in your house’s basement?” Mickey asks bewildered. In his peripheral vision he sees Ian stepping closer, listening curiously.

It’s quiet for a moment again and Mickey can hear some shuffling on the other end.

“Dad found out,” Scott whispers and Mickey doesn’t really need an explanation to figure out what he means. “Just me… don’t worry.”

Mickey shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply.

“He hurt you?” Mickey asks quietly.

“Nothing’s broken,” is all Scott replies. On his scale that probably doesn’t rank high enough to overly worry about. But then there must be a reason why he called Mickey.

“Why are you in the basement?”

It’s quiet again and Mickey waits him out.

“He locked me in here,” Scott eventually answers. His voice turns a bit shakier when he continues. “I haven’t had water or food in three days… I’m scared, Mickey…”

Clenching his teeth, Mickey scratches his temple with his thumb. He looks out the window and then glances to the hall.

“Okay, sit tight. I’m gonna get you out of there,” Mickey says and then hangs up.

“Who was that?” Ian asks right away.

“Mind if I borrow your bat?” Mickey replies and slips into his jacket and shoes, already making his way out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Ian asks and follows him.

Walking down the stairs in a hurry, he grabs the baseball bat from the hook on the wall and then turns around to Ian.

“Stay here. I got something to take care of,” Mickey says.

He makes his way out the back door and rushes down the porch steps, hearing a second set of footsteps following him. Mickey rolls his eyes.

“What’s going on? Where are we going? Who is Scott?” Ian asks, matching his pace next to him.

“Scott Lopez,” Mickey answers.

“The really smart guy in the grade under us? I thought he was admitted to a special program in the beginning of the school year.”

“Thought so too. Heard he went off to Maryland for the time being,” Mickey says, shrugging.

After they had been caught by Principal Allen Scott had called him a few times. In the beginning Mickey had thought it was Scott trying to persuade him to take Principal Allen’s deal, afraid that his decision would get Scott expelled and have their secret exposed as a result. He never returned the phone calls. But one day he got a text message from him, saying that he’d be gone for a while to stay in Maryland. He didn’t know why and he never cared enough to inquire, so he completely ignored the guy. Why he is suddenly back in Chicago is a mystery to him.

“How do you even know him?” Ian asks, eyebrows furrowed.

Mickey keeps his eyes on the road ahead, rolling the baseball bat resting on his shoulder a couple of times in his hand. He tries to focus on getting to Scott and busting him out of there, but he can still feel the phantom press of Ian’s lips on his. Fuck. He can’t think about this right now.

“Look, this might get violent. His dad is a bit of a raging asshole. You sure you’re up for this?” Mickey asks, shooting him a look.

“You’re worried about one guy?” Ian asks dubiously.

“You ain’t seen the guy,” is all Mickey says, raising his eyebrows pointedly. He nods his head down the street to their right. “This way.”

“So what did he do?”

“Roughed Scott up, locked him in the basement, and apparently threw the key away,” Mickey answers.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian says. “Why did he do that?”

“Who knows,” Mickey simply replies, shrugging.

It only takes them about ten minutes to make their way to Scott’s. And by some miracle Ian actually doesn’t bring up what just happened in his room. He throws him some lingering side glances, but Mickey keeps his eyes studiously ahead. The sun is slowly setting and Mickey considers waiting a bit until it’s completely dark before casing the place out to stay under the radar. But the car is gone from the driveway and if Scott’s father is not at home, this would be the perfect opportunity to try to bust Scott out. He hops easily over the fence and then walks down the driveway. The garage door is open and what looks like a pick-up truck is stored in it under a weathered, old tarp. He can see a little of the red paint job peeking out from underneath; an ugly ass American flag sticker with an eagle stuck to the rear. Next to the porch steps there is a small window looking into the basement and Mickey crawls onto the ground to check if he can see anything.

There between a tool cart and some stacked boxes he sees Scott sitting against the wall, huddled in on himself. Softly, he raps his knuckles against the windowpane until Scott’s head snaps up when he notices. He heaves himself up from the ground with the help of the wall and shuffles closer. He’s bruised and he has a bit of dried blood on his skin, but nothing looks too severe they’d need to be worried about calling an ambulance. The window doesn’t open and it’s too small to climb out of even if Mickey smashed it. He points to the door up the wooden stairs questioningly, silently asking if his dad is at home. Scott shakes his head as if he doesn’t know.

“Can’t see anybody from the kitchen window,” Ian says quietly. “It’s open. I could give you a boost.”

Mickey looks at him, nods, and then gestures for Scott to wait. At the kitchen window, he passes the bat over and Ian helps him lift him up. Quietly, he tries to get the sticky window to open and cringes when the wood scratches loudly on the frame.

“How about you let the whole neighborhood hear that we’re breaking in!” Ian hisses.

“Ain’t exactly well maintained this house!” Mickey shoots back while wiggling himself through the open slit. Ian pushes him forcefully from below.

“Hurry up!”

“Excuse me, am I not slithering through a splintery 12 inch open window fast enough for you?” Mickey grunts.

Ian gives him one more rough push and Mickey slides over the sink onto the floor. He quickly looks around if somebody is in the house and heard the ruckus. The house is eerily quiet and so Mickey deems it empty and safe. He pulls himself up to his feet, takes a cursory look around the living room to make sure nobody is home, and then goes back to the kitchen to let Ian in from the back porch.

“You check upstairs yet?” Ian whispers. When Mickey shakes his head, Ian nods to the stairs, silently letting him know that he is going to have a look just in case Scott’s father is sleeping up there. “You get Scott out of the basement.”

“Careful. The guy ain’t no joke,” Mickey says, holding onto Ian’s arm when he is about to head upstairs. Ian nods in understanding and then sneaks up the stairs.

Looking around, Mickey searches for the door to the basement and finds it in the hall off to the living room. He shakes his head incredulously when he sees three separate locks on that door. Quietly he knocks on it and waits until he hears footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Mickey?” Scott says from the other door.

“Yeah, it’s me. You got any idea where your dad keeps the keys to Fort Knox here?” He asks, all the while keeping an eye on the living room.

“In the cabinet behind the couch. Green bowl.”

Mickey makes his way over, opens the wooden cabinet door, and searches for the green bowl Scott mentioned. He spots it on the lower shelf and sees the keys in it next to a bunch of shotgun shells and one clip of ammo belonging to what Mickey thinks must be a Glock. Looking around this shithole, he sees that Scott’s father must still be stuck in the time he was in the army. Amid various empty liquor bottles, knives and all kinds of army gear are strewn around the living room. American flags and eagles are adorning the walls, pictures of the guy in his uniform and of his unit hanging below or in between… And to the side, pinned next to it with a knife, his letter of dishonorable discharge. Huffing, Mickey walks back to the door to the basement. It takes a moment until he gets the right keys into the respective locks, but eventually he manages to open the door.

“Come on,” Mickey says when he sees Scott crouched down on the top step, looking at him relieved.

He’s got a black eye, a small cut above his brow that has scabbed by now, bruises all over his arms and he guesses the rest of Scott’s body must look similar. Despite the injuries though, Scott actually looks overall much healthier than the last time Mickey saw him. Back then he was skinny, pale, and jittery. His drug habits slowly having started to show. Now he looks like he put some weight back on and his skin has a healthier tinge to it. He looks weak from not having eaten and going without water for days, but generally he looks much better.

“You able to walk?”

Scott nods and takes his hand. Mickey helps him up and they head back through the hall into the living room.

“So what’s the plan? You gonna split?” Mickey asks.

“I’m going back. I was just here to get the last of my things when my ex-boyfriend showed up after hearing I was back in town. He kissed me right when my dad came back,” Scott explains.

“You’re fucking bad luck, man,” Mickey says, his thoughts circling back to when the two of them got caught too.

Scott wobbles a little and Mickey steadies him when he lists to the side. He looks weak and dehydrated. Mickey remembers the bottle of water he had seen earlier on the couch table and go gets it, handing it to him.

“Thanks,” Scott says after taking a few greedy sips. He looks at Mickey as if he doesn’t know what to say. He’s obviously thankful and relieved Mickey got him out of that basement, but the two of them never did talk much with each other before and their dynamic hasn’t changed in that respect. They were always just two guys having grown up in similar circumstances, with fathers that could never find out about their secrets, who started to fuck each other in dark, cobwebby rooms. The only tie they shared was coming from the same fear and misery they felt going through life. They used to have the same look in their eyes, Mickey knows. He used to barely be able to look at the guy for long. But now it doesn’t really feel like they’re in the same place anymore. When he looks into Scott’s eyes now, they’re brighter, more vivid… It makes him wonder what happened in the almost half a year they haven’t seen each other.

He looks to the stairway, sees Ian walk down, and then suddenly both Ian and Scott are staring at him, or rather behind him, with the exact same expression of shock. Fuck, Mickey thinks. The moment he turns around he gets pistol whipped by the mount of man that is Scott’s dad. The force knocks him away and onto his back.

“Mickey!” He hears Ian yell.

“Who are you?” Scott’s dad shouts, looking between Ian and Mickey. Mickey can’t believe this guy is real. His arms are three times the size as his. Dwayne Johnson and Vin Diesel combined couldn’t match his bulk.

Mickey’s head is still dizzy from the assault and he has to force himself to concentrate on Scott’s dad walking toward him with his gun. He scrambles backward.

“Easy there!” Mickey says, holding his hands out. The man furrows his brow when he looks at Mickey.

“You’re Milkovich’s boy, aren’t you? What are you doing in my house?” He asks and then turns around to Scott angrily. “What’s he doing here? Why are you out?”

“Dad…” Scott says shakily.

“¡¿Quién te ha dicho que podías salir?!” He shouts.

“¡Por favor, Papá! Estuve ahí metido durante días…” Scott says and helplessly looks over to Mickey.

Mickey thinks he said something about having been in the basement for days. When he looks over to Ian, who had stopped midway in the living room when Scott’s dad had aimed his gun at him, they share a concerned look.

“He another one of your little ‘friends’?” Scott’s dad demands, yelling at Scott.

“No, Dad!”

“I told you what would happen if I caught you again!” He says, pointing furiously at him. He is about to turn to Mickey again and Mickey quickly throws Ian a pointed look and then kicks against the man’s knee as hard as he can. He immediately rolls to the side when Scott’s dad yells out in pain and starts shooting at him. He aims at Mickey again and at this short distance Mickey knows he can’t dodge in time, but Ian is already in position behind him and strikes him with the baseball bat. But apart from having him list a bit forward and pulling his attention away from Mickey, it really didn’t do any damage.

“What the…” Ian mutters with wide eyes as he looks at the monster that is Scott’s dad.

Mickey uses the moment though to grab one of the knives on the coffee table, roll to his feet, and charge at him while he’s turned to Ian.

“Hey, big fat ugly!” He calls out, stabbing him in his arm and even this Hulk of a man has to drop his gun reflexively in response. Mickey has barely enough time to register the gun sliding down the couch before Scott’s dad is picking him up around his neck with his injured arm, growling at him. The knife is actually still hanging from his arm. Mickey’s throat is being crushed in that huge hand of his and he struggles to get free. He sees Ian strike him a few more times, but it’s hardly even registering with the guy. Mickey is starting to see black dots in his vision.

“Dad!” He hears Scott yell from behind him.

“Fuck,” Ian curses, throws the bat to the side, and then jumps on the man’s back. He wraps his arms around his neck and using his weight pulls him back, choking him in the process. The guy is _still_ not letting go of Mickey though and so Mickey hits him repeatedly in his elbow. Together they manage to get him to let go and Mickey falls to the ground, gasping for air and coughing his lungs out.

“Motherfucker…” Mickey mutters, rolling on the floor.

“Mickey! Little help here? Oh shit!”

He looks back to Ian who is hanging on the guy like he’s on one of these mechanical bull rides. Scott’s dad is trying to grab him, reaching for him over his head and when he has a grip on his jacket he swiftly leans down and throws him over. Ian crashes into the TV stand hard, breaking it. He cries out in pain.

“What the hell is this guy, Mickey?!” He groans, having the air pushed out of his lungs.

Meanwhile Scott’s dad is walking toward the shotgun leaning against the wall and Mickey charges at him with the intent to tackle him away, but Scott’s dad is just using Mickey’s momentum and throws him in direction to the stairs.

“I’m gonna kill all of you!” He shouts furiously.

Before he can grab the shotgun though, Scott must have grabbed the second knife that had been lying on the coffee table and stabs him in the small of his back. The man hollers in pain and staggers back. Breathing angrily, he marches toward Scott who is scrambling backward on the floor, pulls out the two knives from his arm and back and tosses them away. Before he can lean down and throw his first punch at Scott both Mickey and Ian are charging him. Nestled under his arms they push him backward and hit him repeatedly, but apart from making him angrier, it’s not really doing anything.

“Is he for real?!” Ian hisses incredulously, after hitting him in the kidney without any effect.

“I told you!” Mickey grunts out, punching him in the liver, but also to no avail.

Scott’s dad grabs them by their necks, yanks them away from him, and then smashes them against each other. They both smack their heads together, crying out in pain as they drop to the floor.

“Fuck!” Mickey groans out.

“In my own house! You think you can come here and attack me in my own house!” Scott’s dad bellows out angrily and starts punching Ian.

By the third punch Ian is already disoriented, his arms falling away. Mickey himself is holding his head, scrambling weakly up from the floor. He grabs Lopez by the arm that was about to hit Ian again and the guy turns angrily around, grabbing him by his collar. The guy headbutts him and Mickey gets straight knocked down to the floor. The ceiling is spinning and his ears are ringing. Mickey doesn’t know where up and down is anymore.

“You bring these two to my house?! For what? You wanted to kill me, is that it?”

“No! Please, Dad! I just wanted to get out of there! Please just let them go!” Scott pleads.

“He another one of your fag friends?!” He asks, pointing at Mickey. Mickey rolls his head to the two, spitting out blood.

“No! Dad-”

“You will never ever fuck another fag again, you hear me?! You little ungrateful piece of shit! Until you understand I will keep knocking the sense back into you! No homo is a son of mine!” He shouts. Mickey rolls over, trying to get up. “¡Joto! ¡Eres una desgracia para la familia!”

“I never did anything to deserve this…” Scott says, looking at the floor, balling his fists.

“What did you say?”

“I said I never deserved to be treated this way by you! All the beatings, all my life!” Scott says accusingly.

“You lack discipline and obedience!” His father shouts back.

“No, you just looked for any excuse to vent your misery!” Scott shoots back, biting his lip in anger.

“Excuse? So you’re not gay?!” He retorts, grabbing Scott by the collar.

“So what? I rather be gay than a ranging piece of shit alcoholic who was kicked out of the army and only knows how to beat his own kid!” Scott replies angrily and it’s the first time Mickey has ever seen the guy like that. Angry and fed up, but yet brave the way he carries himself under his father’s hateful glare.

Furious, his dad backhands him and Scott skids on the floor. He steps over to him and grabs him, starting to punch him repeatedly.

“I raised you! I am your father and you repay me like this?! With disrespect?! By fucking men?! No more! You are going to learn never ever to disrespect me again!” He says while keeping punching his son. “You fag, you will not talk to me like this again! If you decide to be one of them, you are no longer my son! I will never accept a queer ass fucker in my house! You vile, rotten piece of shit!”

“Hey assface!” Mickey barks and hits him in the balls with the baseball bat. When the hit gets him off Scott, has him howling in pain, he continues by striking both of his knees. He manages to get him falling on his side, bellowing from the pain, and then leans down so he’s face to face with the guy. “¡Dilo otra vez y te hago tragar tu ego!”

And then he strikes him right in his face, the force pushing him on his back and knocking him out.

Breathing heavily, he throws the bat to the side. He had heard enough of that fucking son of a bitch. The guy looks to be out cold for now and so Mickey immediately turns his attention to the other two in the room. His face covered in cuts and blood, Scott stares at his father lying on the ground, apparently not quiet able to believe he got knocked out like that. Mickey ignores him and immediately heads to Ian who is slowly sitting up. Kneeling down next to him, he looks him over.

“You okay?” Mickey asks.

“I’ll live,” Ian replies, hissing when he touches the cut above his eyebrow. “I’m never going on a B and E with you ever again.”

“Hey, I warned you,” Mickey retorts and grabs him by his head to inspect the cut.

“You could have mentioned the guy is a 6’7, 300 pound gorilla.”

“How did you grow up around this neighborhood and never heard of Scott’s dad? He could be in the circus!” He says, looking at the cut still sluggishly bleeding. “We’ll have to take care of this later. Let’s get out of here first, before the 6’7, 300 pound gorilla decides to wake up and go for round two.”

Ian nods in agreement and immediately groans from the pain the movement causes. Mickey helps him up and then he turns to Scott. Walking over, he crouches in front of him.

“You gonna be okay?” Mickey asks, looking at his injuries.

“I’m fine,” Scott replies, nodding. They’re face to face and Scott stares at him. “Thank you, Mick.”

“Yeah, whatever. The fuck are you going to do now? ‘Cause I’m telling you up front, I ain’t busting you out of that basement a second time. You gotta hightail it out of here.”

“I will. I’m taking the next bus out of Chicago,” Scott says and he almost smiles. “And I won’t ever come back.”

Mickey huffs amused.

“Good for you,” Mickey says and because he’s a bit curious now he goes on to ask him. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Baltimore.”

“The hell have you been doing there?”

Scott glances over to Ian for a moment before turning back to Mickey to answer.

“After what happened Principal Allen had me transfer schools. Made me participate in a special exchange program for the highly gifted.”

“The fuck is that?” Mickey asks bewildered.

“I don’t know, but neither did my dad when he got him to sign off on it. He asked a friend of his in Baltimore to take me in. She’s really nice. The deal was I go to rehab and then finish school there while staying at her place,” he explains. When he continues, he glances down to the hands in his lap. “When Principal Allen passed away, I thought I had to go back home. But she said she’d keep looking after me until I graduated next year if I wanted. I just needed to grab some of my stuff, that’s why I came back.”

That principal was a really nosy motherfucker. If Scott was made to go to rehab, that would explain why he looks healthier now. And having spent the last half a year in a safe place, not getting beat up by his dad, seems to have really done the guy some good.

“Good for you,” he simply repeats quietly.

Scott’s eyes flicker over his face for a moment. He stares at him.

“You look different,” he says. Mickey doesn’t know what that means and furrows his eyebrows. “What happened after…?”

Mickey shakes his head annoyed. He’s not getting into this now. Especially not in front of Ian.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says instead and helps him up from the ground.

“Are you going to be fine after today? My dad can hold a grudge and he knows who you are,” Scott asks, glancing worriedly to his father.

“He’s not gonna mess with a Milkovich. My old man hates your dad and I’m pretty sure he still owes him money from before he got tossed in the joint. I’m going to be fine. What about you? He know where you’ve been staying?”

“Well, he thinks Washington D.C.”

“Good. Go get your stuff,” Mickey says, looking over to Scott’s dad lying unconscious on the floor. They don’t know how long the guy will stay down. They should hurry up.

Scott nods and starts walking to the stairs. He stops to look at Ian.

“You’re Ian. Ian Gallagher, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian replies.

“Thank you.”

Ian just nods and Scott makes his way upstairs. Mickey and Ian share a look for a moment. Ian seems to be pensive, but neither is saying anything and they wait in silence until Scott comes back with his bag. They get out of that damn house and walk together until Scott parts with them, saying his good-bye before heading to the subway station in the other direction. Watching him leave, Mickey feels like a chapter of his life comes to an end. It seems like a lifetime has passed since he got caught with Scott in that guidance counselor's office. That day that changed the course of his life so dramatically. The same day the blackout hit and he got bonded to this ginger right next to him. He glances over to Ian and sees him staring at him. The day his life got turned upside down. He still doesn’t believe in fate, but if there is actually something to it, he must have done something right to have somebody like Ian willingly follow him into the fire, having his back like that. He watches as the blood drips down Ian’s face over battered skin and Mickey can’t help but think he’s still the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

Back at Ian’s they see Debbie, Fiona, and Liam have come back home while they were gone. They immediately single in on their bloodied faces and ask what happened, but Ian simply drags Mickey by his jacket up the stairs.

“We’re fine,” is all Mickey says to them while being pulled along.

They make their way to the bathroom, washing the blood off their faces and hands. Ian pulls off his flannel upper shirt, his head wound having steadily dripped down on it, and throws it in the direction of the hamper. Mickey holds a towel he’d soaked in cold water against his throbbing head. They’re silent and eventually they look at each other, still not saying anything. Ian seems overly preoccupied by his own thoughts. The cut above his eyebrow starts bleeding again and Mickey exhales, thinking that needs to be taken care of.

“Sit down,” Mickey says and nods to the toilet seat.

Ian slowly walks over and sits down on the closed lid, watching him intently from his position below him. Mickey avoids meeting his eyes and shuffles closer, throwing the wet towel haphazardly in the sink. When he can’t avoid looking at him any longer, he exhales through his nose, and reaches for Ian’s head. Their eyes meet and, feeling uncomfortable, Mickey immediately focuses on the bloody cut, trying to ignore Ian. Normally a cut like this would need stitches. Tentatively, he lets his fingers slide over Ian’s temple, letting them rest close to the wound. He adjusts the bond a little, so it’s covering the area and then he waits. Ian is still looking at him, like he’s working something out in his head, and Mickey is a bit surprised the guy hasn’t said anything yet. Even on the way back, Ian had been completely silent. It’s slightly unnerving to Mickey.

It takes about ten minutes until the cut has entirely healed and when he looks over to the rest of Ian’s face, he sees most of the other wounds have vanished by now as well except for his split lower lip. Choosing to ignore that injury, he lets go of Ian. It’s still freaking Mickey out that he can actually heal somebody. That touching Ian is all he needs to do in order for his injuries to disappear. He wasn’t lying when he told Ian that he doesn’t particularly care about fate and whether they were destined to be parts of a higher purpose, but he does wonder why, out of all things, he has the ability to heal. If this was indeed all thought out, then why would Mickey get a special ability like this?

Snapping out of his own thoughts, he steps away and, shuffling a little around at first, he ends up heading out first. Brushing his hand over his face, he breathes in deeply and goes to sit down on the bed, propping himself up on his thighs. Ian comes in a minute later, closes the door, stays leaned against it with his hands behind his back, and glances over to Mickey. He’s got a band-aid now where the cut was and Mickey raises his eyebrow confused.

“Fiona and Debbie saw. Can’t really explain that you healed me,” Ian explains with a shrug and Mickey supposes that is true. He hadn’t thought of that.

It’s quiet for a moment again, Ian still hanging back by the door with his hands behind him. Eventually he sees Ian make up his mind as he takes a deep breath.

“I have questions.”

At least now Mickey feels like he’s back on familiar ground. He doesn’t say anything, but it seems clear by the lack of complaints, that he isn’t going to stop Ian from asking what he wants to know.

“Scott… Is he your ex-boyfriend?”

Mickey furrows his eyebrows and looks up at Ian.

“The hell are you talking about? No, he ain’t my fucking ex-boyfriend,” Mickey replies bewildered.

Ian struggles with how to properly phrase what he wants to say apparently. He exhales slightly irritably.

“If not boyfriend, then somebody who you used to fuck,” Ian says, looking at Mickey.

Mickey bites his lip, letting his gaze flicker over the floor.

“I’m not…” He says reflexively, the denial hanging on his tongue.

“Did you guys ever fuck?” Ian asks to the point, apparently wanting a direct answer.

His eyes wildly flickering over the floor, Mickey bites his bottom lip. Eventually he nods.

“That’s what happened… Principal Allen caught you two fucking. He made you participate in the study program and he sent Scott away to Baltimore. In return he wouldn’t tell your dads about what happened. That’s it, isn’t it?” Ian asks, watching him for his answer.

With Principal Allen dead and Scott moving away he thought his secret would finally be only his again. No more damage control. No more anxiety of somebody finding out. But apparently once a secret is out, it really is out in the world. At least if it’s Ian knowing, he might feel a bit freer. He nods once more.

“I figured it was about him threatening to tell your dad you’re gay, but I never knew what exactly he held against you. I was worried you and Principal Allen might have had a thing,” Ian says.

Mickey doesn’t know which part of what Ian just said disturbs him the most.

“Why the fuck would you think I’d ever bang that old man? What is wrong with you? Pretty sure the guy wasn’t even gay. Neither am I for that matter. I just like the sex,” Mickey replies, looking away.

“Okay, we’re going to circle back to that one later,” Ian says pointedly and moves on. “So, your dad is homophobic enough that he would actually kill you if he found out?”

Mickey still looks at him a bit miffed about that first comment he made, but he puts it aside for now as well.

“The things he’s done to the others will be nothing compared to what he will do to me. Straight off cut my balls off and leave me to die scenario we’re talking here.”

“Others? Aside from Kash did he hurt anybody else?” Ian asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

“At this point it’s a sport to him,” Mickey mutters, looking at the ground.

“Wait, that Matt guy? Your friend from juvie? He was your boyfriend?”

“What’s with you and the boyfriend talk shit? I don’t have boyfriends! We banged in juvie, that’s it. Don’t go making weird shit up,” Mickey replies, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Mickey,” Ian says and looks at him pointedly. “I understand a lot better now why you don’t want anybody to know in case Terry finds out. With dads like Scott’s father and yours… I guess you must have had a really hard time growing up like this. But you need to stop living in denial, otherwise you’ll never be free.”

Studiously, Mickey stares at the floor. His hands are balled to fists. What is he supposed to say to that? His head still hurts. The throbbing headache isn’t helping him cope with this conversation either.

He hears the lock clicking into place and he looks up to see Ian’s hand on the key. Staying there for a moment longer, Ian eventually walks over and Mickey’s fists tighten in response. When Ian stops in front of him, he bites his lip, averting his gaze. Ian’s hands come up to cup Mickey’s head and he feels Ian’s fingers brushing through his hair, settling into place. The bond connects and his headache is practically gone within seconds. Ian tilts his head up until Mickey has to look at him. The way Ian stares at him is soft and searching and he starts rhythmically brushing his thumb over Mickey’s cheek.

“You love me and you’re gay,” Ian says.

His breath comes uneven now and Mickey struggles with himself as he keeps meeting Ian’s gaze. His fingernails are digging painfully into skin. He can taste the blood on his lip. Ian still stares at him with soft green eyes. His thumb is still caressing gently over his cheek. Mickey wonders what would happen if he admitted it just once…

Exhaling, he reaches for Ian’s belt and starts unbuckling it. He hears Ian’s sharp intake of breath above him and he looks up, seeing Ian’s wide eyes. They stare at each other for a moment, the air between them downright electrified, until Mickey tilts his head and raises his eyebrow. Ian strips off his undershirt in one swift move and Mickey smirks, getting back to unbuttoning and unzipping Ian’s pants. He pushes them down to his knees until Ian grabs at Mickey’s shirt, frantically pulling it off him. Ian shoves Mickey to lean back on the bed, immediately taking hold of Mickey’s pants to roughly get him out of them. Mickey let’s out a little laugh. Who knew that Gallagher could be so aggressive? So hot? They hurriedly strip out of their shoes and socks and get their pants off all the way. Ian immediately straddles his thighs and Mickey’s hands grip Ian’s legs in response, fingers wrapping around the firm muscles. It’s a bit strange to connect with Ian through their bond in places other than where they’ve usually touched up until now. Intimate. Sliding a little up, Ian’s ass grinds down on Mickey’s crotch and Mickey is hard within the second. Ian looks like a wet dream. Literally like one of his wet dreams. All the times he saw him half naked gyrating his ass in those little gold shorts for these scumbag old perverts in the club it was hard not to keep imagining what it would be like having Ian move his hips like that for him and now he’s right on top of him. Mickey is right in front of him. Sees his muscles rippling over his stomach, the fine red hair traveling down his boxers, his hard-on pressing against his own. Letting out a grunt and a shaky exhale, Mickey pushes up, grinding his pelvis against Ian’s while letting his fingers dig into Ian’s thighs for purchase. Mickey can’t help but reach for Ian’s stomach with one hand. He feels the defined abs under his palm and his dick twitches in response. Fascinated, he lets his thumb brush over the little red trail. He let’s out a shaky breath and sucks his lip between his teeth.

“Fuck, Mickey…” Ian groans out, tipping his head back, pressing down hard while holding onto Mickey.

The movement makes Mickey groan in response and he swears he will bust his nuts soon even though they haven’t even started doing anything yet. Letting his eyes follow the arch of Ian’s exposed throat to his parted mouth, Mickey feels like he’s thirteen again, ready to come in his boxers. Ian looks down at him again, meeting his eyes. His gaze is intense and Mickey has to swallow in response. Not being able to keep the eye contact, Mickey flips them over, pushing him to lie along the length of the bed. He slides his leg between Ian’s and presses against Ian’s hard dick. Ian exhales an amused and aroused chuckle and grabs for Mickey’s ass, pushing against him to welcome the motion. Smirking, Mickey does it again and watches how Ian looks at him hungrily. To say he was terrified to make a move on Ian, to reveal his biggest secret, is an understatement. But this, this feels like they are two puzzle pieces snapping together. He might still feel the underlying note of anxiety he’s studiously pushing down with harsh grips, cocky eyebrows, and teeth baring smirks, but this feels anything but wrong. This should be a terrible idea for a multitude of reasons, but in the moment he can’t say it feels like it. The excitement is bubbling beneath his skin and as if the bond was an immediate reflection, it whirs uncontrolled through his fingertips along Ian’s chest.

Exhaling an uneven breath, Ian tightens his grip on Mickey, mirroring Mickey’s untamed enthusiasm. His fingers squeeze Mickey’s ass, digging harshly into his skin. While Mickey moves, the fingers slide between his cheeks and he stutters out a shaky groan as he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip. It’s been so fucking long. The sensation is pumping the blood down to his dick. When he opens his eyes, he sees Ian staring curiously at him. Suddenly Ian rolls them around, rearranges Mickey on the little bed, swiftly pinning him under him. He grabs Mickey’s arms and holds them down at each side of his head. He’s slipped between Mickey’s legs and is now pushing them up and to the side with his own. With both of their legs spread, Ian watches him intently as he rubs through their boxers his hard dick along Mickey’s asshole. Mickey can’t stifle the excited groan escaping him. Ian’s eyebrow twitches infinitesimally as he takes in Mickey’s reaction and the grip on Mickey’s arms tighten.

“I top, if that’s okay with you,” Ian says, holding still for a moment to watch Mickey.

All the times he was wondering what it would be like to get topped by a guy like Ian and now it seems like he’s going to find out. He’s never been so turned on, so hot for somebody.

“Then get on it, Gallagher,” Mickey replies, impatiently pushing his ass against Ian’s dick.

Smirking, Ian slips his hand to Mickey’s ass, gripping tightly as he grinds happily against him. Ian presses closer, lies on top of him, and Mickey feels the bond snap into place everywhere they touch. It’s somehow different to manipulating the connection to move through their bodies. The added skin on skin contact is staggering. He feels Ian’s breath against his neck, feels his hair tickling his ear as he slides up until they’re face to face. Ian leans in to kiss him and Mickey turns his head away.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me. Was that all big talk, hotshot? Get your dick out and put that thing in me already,” Mickey says.

“Mickey,” Ian replies and lets go of Mickey’s arm to cup his face again. His other hand is still on Mickey’s ass and he presses them further together, rolling his hips. The pressure on his dick is torturously good and yet not good enough. He wants more. Ian keeps on rolling his hips. He rests his head against Mickey’s temple, his exhales hitting his cheek, and tightens his grip on him. “Please?”

Gallagher is killing him, Mickey thinks. He’s never been so desperate for somebody to fuck him. He’s made it a point to never kiss a guy. It wasn’t needed to plainly get off. Kissing is for pussies who have feelings in all that shit. That’s what he always thought. Recalling how Ian and he had kissed earlier, Mickey can’t deny how nice it felt. And it’s Ian, not any of those guys he never gave a fuck about. He supposes if it makes Ian happy and he finally goes on to fuck him, he can deal with kissing.

Reaching over to Ian and cupping his face with one hand, he shares a short look with him before he tilts his head up and kisses him. Ian is so eager, Mickey can practically feel how ecstatic he is. It’s weird to Mickey how this feeds back to him and in turn he feels strangely pleased with himself. He wants to give Ian more, if that’s what makes him happy. Tightening his grip on Ian’s head, he pulls his upper lip between his, sucking on it the slightest bit. When he releases him and parts his own mouth, he slips his tongue out, licking at Ian’s lip once. He feels Ian’s stuttering exhale as he presses closer and then suddenly both of his hands cup Mickey’s head and he dives in. Eagerly he makes Mickey’s lips part so he can lick into his mouth. If Mickey is being honest with himself, this whole kissing thing isn’t half bad. Kind of hot actually. He likes how Ian is seeking him out as if he can’t get enough of him. How he seems so into just kissing Mickey. Ian’s hips keep pushing against Mickey’s, both of them chasing the pressure on their dicks. They haven’t even gotten naked yet and they seem so fucking desperate to hang on already.

“Come on, Gallagher,” Mickey says into Ian’s open mouth, grabbing him by his ass and pushing him further into him. He locks his hips a bit, so he has him pinned, and rolls his pelvis up, letting their dicks rub against each other more.

“Fuck, Mickey…” Ian groans, resting his forehead on Mickey’s.

He takes a moment until he grabs Mickey’s hips with both of his hands and drags him a little further down the bed. Slinging one arm under Mickey’s back to the other side, holding onto his hip, he pins him impossibly tighter to himself when he lets his weight settle on Mickey. The other hand reaches for Mickey’s leg, pointedly keeping the tight hold Mickey has on him. Ian nestles his head closer to Mickey’s, looks at him for a moment before kissing him again. And then he starts gyrating his hips with hard and pointed rolls, creating this impossible friction on Mickey’s dick that makes him almost lose it. Reflexively, he holds onto Ian tighter, groaning from the stimulation on his dick. Ian keeps jerking into him and if Ian wasn’t holding onto him, it would push Mickey up the bed every time. Ian just snaps his hips forward, rutting against him, and Mickey can’t believe how good it feels. His neglected dick finally gets some attention after so long. Getting hot and heavy again with someone has never felt better. And the fact that it’s Ian seems to get his dick more excited than ever. Ian is so fucking hot, he’s sure he was never more turned on in his life than at this moment. And the way he presses against him, touches him exactly how he wants, it’s fucking fantastic.

While they don’t stop kissing they get a bit sloppy. There’s a lot of open mouthed, unaimed kisses now. A lot of hanging onto each other’s lips as they let out small little grunts in time with Ian’s hips roughly jabbing into him. When he doesn’t seem to move on and just keeps grinding against him, keeps building the pleasure, Mickey exhales irritably, digging his fingers into Ian.

“You got to be kidding me, Ian…” Mickey grunts out. He’s so close to coming. There is no way they are making it to the actual fucking. Looking at Ian and feeling him slowly lose control, he knows Ian is on the edge too.

“Yeah, sorry, this isn’t happening right now… I can’t let go…” He says breathlessly and even tightens his grip on him.

In addition to the iron grip on him and Ian’s slick skin against his, the warm feeling of their bond nestled in place makes him feel like he doesn’t know where they begin and where they end. Ian is so tightly wrapped around him, it’s overwhelming. He understands how Ian is incapable of letting go, but he’s still very much peeved about not getting Ian’s dick in him. Leaning into his neck, Ian starts licking and nibbling on his sensitive skin. Mickey doesn’t know how he feels about the intimacy of it, but the sensation is going straight to his dick. He thinks to fuck with it. If they are going to come like this, he’ll make the most of it. He reaches for Ian’s ass cheeks with both of his hands and squeezes hard, pulling him into him, so _he_ can roll his pelvis against Ian. Immediately, Ian stutters out a long groan. Mickey ruts his dick against Ian’s with abandon. He’s thought this before, but despite not having seen Ian’s dick yet, he can already feel how fucking big he is through their boxer shorts. The thought alone of having that big thing push inside him makes his balls tighten. He inhales sharply, feeling the familiar sensation rise and Ian takes that moment to let his teeth scrape along the tender skin of his neck and bites playfully. That breath he just took in pushes out of him forcibly as he comes. His hips are suspended above the mattress, mostly just holding the pressure against Ian, at times still doing little aborted grinding motions to keep him at the height of his climax. And then he collapses, lets his arms and legs fall to the side, feeling his muscles finally relax.

He can’t believe this is the hardest he ever came and all just from grinding against each other like they’re a couple of prepubescent teenagers. His eyes flicker to Ian’s who has apparently been watching him and is now furrowing his brows in concentration as he tries to get his hips to move in a resemblance of a rhythmic motion. He is not adding pressure to Mickey’s dick anymore, for which Mickey is thankful as his oversensitive dick can’t handle it at the moment. He thinks about reaching inside Ian’s boxers to help Ian along, when Ian presses their faces together.

“Kiss me again?” Ian breathes out and looks at him with open, soft eyes.

That soft motherfucker, Mickey thinks. He twists their upper bodies a little to the side, so Ian’s head lands on his upper arm. He lets his fingers slide through that pretty red hair, effectively holding Ian’s head in the crook of his elbow, before leaning in to press his lips against Ian’s. His other hand comes up to cradle his head while he starts slotting their lips together eagerly. Ian seems to just want to follow along Mickey’s directions and so Mickey keeps on kissing him, trying to make it good for him. Within a minute he feels Ian’s hips stutter, feels Ian moan into his open mouth when he comes.

They both collapse next to each other on the bed, breathing heavily. That was the best orgasm Mickey ever had and they’re still wearing their boxers. He can feels his cum wetly around his dick and in his pubes. All of this is just not what he expected it would be and at the same time it’s so much fucking better. Making out with Ian has not ever been the plan. A wishful fantasy, sure, but not the plan. But neither was being his study partner and his friend. And his soulmate. His life hasn’t gone to plan for a while now. At least now it’s going in the direction of mind-blowing orgasms. He can get on board with that.

“Fuck…” He mutters, his breathing finally settling down.

“Yeah…” Ian agrees and his voice sounds happy and sleepy.

Mickey eyes him with furrowed brows. He’s still lying on his arm next to him. His eyes are closed. Jerking his arm irritably, he watches how Ian keeps lying there, not opening his eyes.

“Hey, don’t you dare go pass out before round two. I want your dick in my ass. Ian!” Mickey says annoyed, jostling him. Ian hums in response, letting him now he’s paying attention.

“Give me five minutes and then I’ll rock your world…” Ian replies, shifting a bit closer as he’s drifting off to sleep.

Incredulously, Mickey stares at him and then lets his head fall back onto the mattress. The continuation of mind-blowing orgasms has to wait apparently.

“Fucking Gallagher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, only took the boys 120k for their first kiss. For someone who prefers to write established relationship this really got out of hand. The next chapter I lovingly dubbed the sex chapter. If you're not into explicit sexual content, I don't know what to tell you... This is happening. I would love to hear your thoughts! Please leave love!
> 
> Spanish translations:  
> ¿Quién te ha dicho que podías salir? - Who told you you could get out?  
> ¡Por favor, Papá! Estuve ahí metido durante días... - Please dad! I was down there for days...  
> ¡Joto! ¡Eres una desgracia para la familia! - Fag! You are a disgrace to your family!  
> ¡Dilo otra vez y te hago tragar tu ego! - Say that again I'll shove your dick down your throat!


	14. Chapter 14

It’s the middle of the night when Mickey wakes up. It’s dark outside and the house is eerily quiet. Slowly blinking awake, he feels Ian’s warm body lying next to him. They’re still half naked from earlier when they fell asleep after getting off together. Letting his gaze wander over Ian’s body, all the memories come shooting back to him. It had been so intense, like everything he feels with Ian. This guy who one day just fell from the attic and crashed into his life has completely turned everything upside down for Mickey. It has always been exciting and terrifying. The way Ian has continuously been stripping away at Mickey had him dreading what he’d be left with in the end. Sitting up, he looks at Ian who is still asleep, brushes his fingers through the red hair he loves looking at, and thinks if this is it, it’s not so bad.

Grabbing a random shirt from the floor, he goes and cleans himself up in the bathroom, washes the dried cum off, and takes a piss. Looking at his face in the mirror, he sees the beginning of a dark shiner forming around his right eye. The skin is split open in a few places, but all in all it’s not as bad as he thought it would be. Mickey knows their encounter with Scott’s dad could have gone a lot worse. Still, he gets to look like Frankenstein’s monster while Ian is all healed up. Whoever decided on these special abilities must be holding his finger up to him right about now. Reacting to that thought, he flips himself off in the mirror and then feels stupid for doing so. Grumbling about the universe and fate all being dickheads, he shuffles outside.

Ian is standing in the hallway, peeking inside Fiona’s room and Mickey looks at him curiously. He quietly walks up to him after closing the accordion door.

“Liam is sleeping in Fi’s room,” he whispers. Since they had locked the door, of course the little guy couldn’t even sleep in his own bed. He doesn’t know how he feels about Fiona wondering what they’ve been doing, locked up in there all evening. Some of what Mickey is thinking must be showing on his face, because Ian looks at him knowingly. “Don’t worry. They’ve been thinking we’ve been doing it for months now.”

Mickey looks at him with furrowed brows. He doesn’t understand how this is less worrying.

“Great,” he mutters.

“You’re the only one who needed catching up,” Ian replies and gives him that little shit look.

“Haven’t really caught up to shit yet, Gallagher. Somebody had to go take a pussy nap. You finally gonna get down and dirty?” Mickey asks, eyeing his naked skin up and down while licking the inside of his cheek. Before Ian can answer though, Mickey’s stomach starts to growl.

“How about we check for food downstairs first. I’m starving too,” Ian says amused. “Go ahead. I’ll wash up real quick.”

“Always an excuse with this one,” Mickey mutters after him as Ian walks into the bathroom.

There is a pot of mac and cheese in the fridge and Mickey grabs it, putting it on the stove to heat it up. He takes out two bottles of beer as well and starts on his while stirring the pot so the macaroni won’t burn on the bottom. The smell is mouthwatering and he realizes how hungry he really is. Except for breakfast in the early morning and that one chicken strip from lunch, Mickey hadn’t eaten anything else.

Ian hops quietly down the stairs and Mickey hands him his beer. He has changed into new boxers, but he is still not wearing anything else and the sight gets Mickey hungry in a very different way. Ian gives him a similar look. Mickey raises his eyebrow; he is not the one currently standing in the middle of the room half naked.

He turns off the stove, grabs the pot and two forks, and then heads over to the kitchen table. He sits down at the head of the table and puts the mac and cheese between them from where Ian took the chair. Ian slides his beer over and Mickey hands him one of the forks in return and they silently start digging in. Ian is sitting with both legs on the chair, one propped up from where his arm rests, the other angled to the side. He looks comfortable and loose and as always fucking hot. Especially with that disheveled hair from having just woken up. He gets a bit distracted when Ian holds the fork between his lips and he notices how he must have unintentionally healed Ian’s split lip when they kissed. Mickey shakes his head in slight bewilderment, thinking how weird his ability is.

“Are you staying?” Ian asks as he digs into the pot.

“Offer still stands?” Mickey simply retorts.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m staying,” Mickey replies, taking a sip from his beer.

“Under one condition,” Ian adds and Mickey raises his eyebrow in response. “You sleep on the bed.”

The _with me_ seems to be implied. Mickey shoots him an unimpressed look and takes another fork full of macaroni. The guy keeps on pushing him; now he wants him to practically come out to his whole family too. Whether they’ve been thinking they’ve been banging before or not doesn’t matter.

“Fine, but never when Mandy is staying over. You keep your mouth shut about us. I am serious. You, your family – nobody else,” Mickey says.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Mickey emphasizes.

“Okay,” Ian repeats. He seems satisfied with the arrangement.

“And you don’t go using me as your oversized personal pillow!” Mickey adds, pointing his fork at him.

“Nope, not part of the deal,” Ian replies, shaking his head casually.

“I’m regretting this already,” Mickey mutters.

“So, that means you’re officially my boyfriend now?” Ian says, grinning.

“Don’t push your luck, Ian,” Mickey responds with a deep scowl. Ian starts laughing.

Hooking his foot under Mickey’s chair, he pulls him closer and leans forward. Still smiling, he moves in to kiss him, but Mickey simply shoves his face away.

“No more kissing for you until you’ve fucked me. You weirdo get overexcited from making out like you’re some teenage girl and you don’t last,” Mickey says emphatically.

Rolling his eyes, Ian looks at him fondly.

“One, we both got overexcited. Two, I’ve been practically forced into celibacy for the last half a year, because my boyfriend has the world’s most slowest process of figuring things out.”

“Celi- what? And don’t call me your boyfriend! Fact is we could have fucked five times by now, if you didn’t shoot your nuts off from simply kissing me,” Mickey shoots back, throwing the fork on the table after finishing the pot. He reaches for his beer, pointedly looking at Ian.

Ian gears up to say something when he stops to stare at him. Eyeing him weirdly, Mickey licks the beer from his lower lip, waiting for him to say what he wanted to say. Ian seems in thought as he keeps staring at him and Mickey wonders what his deal is.

“What?” He asks confused and when he glances down, he does a double-take. He’s got an obvious tent in his boxers. “You’re doing it again! You were thinking of kissing me and you sprang a boner! Unbelievable!”

“So what?” Ian retorts, rubbing at his hard-on once.

“You’re such a pussy. Are you finally gonna put that dick of yours to good use or do you need more sleep, princess?” Mickey says, raising his eyebrows. If he’s somehow ended up somebody’s boyfriend, he at least wants to enjoy the perks of it now.

Ian slowly smirks, empties his beer, and then gets up. Mickey does as well and they shove each other up the stairs, laughing.

Once in Ian’s room Mickey is absolutely not interested in prolonging this affair anymore. When Ian crowds him, holding him by his hips, Mickey reaches for Ian’s boxers and impatiently pulls them down. Ian’s dick springs free and it’s absolutely glorious. He’s big, Mickey thinks, licking his lips. Packing nine inches. It has a nice girth to it. And even with the only light source coming from the window, he can see it even has freckles on it. It’s the best thing Mickey has ever seen. A gorgeous dick standing out of that pretty bush of red hair. Mickey actually has to swallow because of how happy the sight makes him.

“Damn, Gallagher. You need a license for that,” Mickey states, not able to tear his eyes away.

Ian grabs his dick, loosely strokes it, and when Mickey looks up at him, he sees Ian smiling. Mickey grins and turns around, climbing on the bed. He’s on his knees, facing the window, and unceremoniously pulls his own boxer shorts down. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Ian staring at him. He steps closer, moves up onto the bed as well, and then puts both of his hands on Mickey’s ass. By now Mickey barely even notices them connecting through their bond anymore, it’s become second nature and even Ian doesn’t seem to get distracted any longer. Squeezing, Ian digs his fingers into his ass. Starts kneading and spreading his cheeks slightly. And then Ian’s head lands between his shoulder blades, huffing happily into the fabric. Wondering what his deal is, but not able to get a good look at him from his position, he bumps him a little to tell him to get on with it. Sliding his hands over to his hips, Ian holds onto him and hooks his chin over Mickey’s shoulder, pulling him closer. Eyeing him from so close, Mickey sees Ian checking out his own dick. He huffs out a little laugh.

“If we’re all acquainted now, could we get this show on the road?” Mickey asks, licking the corner of his lips.

Ian smiles, presses closer, holds him tight for a second while he kisses the crook of his neck, and then retreats. Ian is a really sneaky bastard, Mickey thinks. He’s become a master in getting away with things like these before Mickey has a chance to say anything. He rolls his eyes before turning around to watch how Ian is reaching under the bed to retrieve a bottle of lube. Mickey grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, when Ian stops him.

“Keep it on,” Ian says.

“Why?” Mickey asks.

“If I’m not allowed to kiss you, at least keep the shirt on,” Ian says, staring at him in the shirt.

Furrowing his brows, he eyes him confused, but let’s go in the end.

“Whatever gets your rocks off, man.”

Ian smirks and grabs him by his thighs, roughly dragging him over the sheets toward the edge of the bed and then pushes him down by his shoulder so he’s level with the window sill. Mickey grins to himself as he rests his arm on it. Ian being assertive and touching him just right, the guy keeps hitting all the right buttons with him. If this is a precursor of what’s coming, Mickey can’t wait. He hears the bottle cap click open and he spreads his legs a bit further, holding his ass out more to Ian. Ian grunts slightly, exhaling shakily and when Mickey looks over his shoulder he sees him squeezing the base of his dick while blinking up at the ceiling.

“Ey, concentrate. No shooting your load early. You owe me a good, hard fucking, bitch,” Mickey says.

Letting his eyes fall on Mickey, Ian huffs and then spanks him once.

“Oh, now we’re talking,” Mickey says and smirks, wiggling his eyebrows.

It’s making Ian laugh and he grabs him by his hips, pulling him against him. He lets his dick slip between Mickey’s ass cheeks, having it slide up and down for a bit until he takes the abandoned bottle of lube and squirts some on his fingers. The feeling of Ian’s dick on his ass gets Mickey even harder and he can’t wait for Ian to finally push inside of him. Ian’s finger presses against his hole and breaches inside, sliding all the way in. Mickey lets out a long suffering exhale. He’s missed this feeling. He’s been going without for too long.

“Fuck, you’re tight, Mickey,” Ian groans, pushing a bit back and forth.

“Just hurry up,” Mickey says, concentrating on the feeling of Ian’s finger moving around inside of him.

Ian adds a second finger and it pushes Mickey a bit forward when he presses in. Mickey puts a hand on his dick, just holding it, nothing more. Simply feeling it fill out while being fingered. When Ian wiggles his third finger in, Mickey feels the familiar stretch and he lets his head rest on his arm at the window sill as he exhales. Now he starts fiddling around with his dick a bit, fists it loosely in his hand. He’s pretty sure he could come from this sensation alone. It’s just been too long.

“You’re still a bit tight…” Ian tells him contemplatively. “I could rim you, if you’re into that?”

That thought goes directly to his dick and now he’s the one squeezing himself, trying to calm down.

“Other time,” he exhales, loving the thought of getting Ian’s tongue inside him, but he won’t last if he does it now and while he’s sure he’d be up for round three, he is really impatient and finally wants to fuck in earnest. “Just get in me already. I can take you.”

“I’m pretty big,” Ian simply says, but Mickey is sure the guy must be smirking. Sure enough, when Mickey turns to look over his shoulder, he sees him lazily stroking his dick while looking at him entirely too smug.

“Yeah, I saw. Now get on with it,” he replies, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah… I can’t wait any longer anyway,” Ian admits and squirts some more lube in his palm, stroking his dick with it.

He slips out of his boxers and steps up to Mickey, angling his dick to Mickey’s asshole. And then he finally, slowly pushes into Mickey. The sensation is overwhelming. Indeed it’s a tight fit and the stretch burns a bit, but Mickey does take pleasure in the roughness of it all too. The feeling of being stretched and plugged like that has always been fucking amazing to Mickey. And Ian just feels so hot and big, it’s absolutely incredible.

“Fuck…” Ian groans out, exhaling shakily.

Ian keeps on pressing into him and there seems to be no end to it. A sharp exhale pushes out of Mickey when he adjusts himself a bit to be able to take more of Ian. He spreads his legs further and pushes against him. He stays relaxed though to help Ian keep pushing into him.

“I can’t believe you’re so perfect,” Ian says and places his hand on the small of Mickey’s back, pushes him down a little to feed the rest of his dick into him and then he stays bottomed out like that as he keeps the pressure of his forward grind just for a bit longer. What Ian said is mirroring exactly Mickey’s thoughts. He can’t believe Ian is precisely everything he wants.

Ian starts moving and the feeling of him shallowly pushing in and out, still trying to get Mickey’s insides to adjust to him, is making Mickey drop his head on his arm and groan as he gets used to having Ian’s dick in him. It’s so damn big, Mickey can’t believe he gets to fuck a dick like that. After Mickey seems to have gotten used to having Ian in him, Ian sets a steady pace thrusting into him now. Mickey hums contently, huffing breathlessly as he enjoys Ian pushing in and out of him. According to the little noises Ian makes, he’s enjoying himself too.

“Can’t believe we waited so long to do this,” Mickey breathes out.

“You’re telling me, Mickey,” Ian grunts out and pushes involuntarily harder into him when he loses a bit of control.

“Oh, yeah, come on, Gallagher,” Mickey says in reaction and meets him on his next thrust hard.

Gripping Mickey’s hips tightly, Ian starts pushing in harder, adding a bit of an upward motion to each thrust. The air in Mickey’s lungs forces itself out and he chuckles breathlessly, enjoying the new pace. Ian fucks him like that for a few minutes, keeps the hard rhythmical thrusts going. It’s good and Mickey’s mind goes blank for a bit, simply enjoying Ian’s dick jab into him.

A particular hard push has him slide forward a bit and he reflexively squeezes around Ian’s dick. Ian moans in response, stuttering in his movements and Mickey decides to keep it going by pushing his ass against Ian and repeating the motion.

“Fuck, Mickey…” Ian exhales shakily, digging his fingers into Mickey’s hips. Ian sets the pace again and Mickey keeps meeting his thrusts, squeezing here and there to drive Ian crazy. He looks over his shoulder at him and grins, raising his eyebrow cockily.

Ian lets out an involuntary chuckle and then meets his eyes challenging. Holding onto Mickey’s hips, he places both knees on the bed. The movement pushes him forward and his dick deeper and Mickey groans in response. Ian rolls his hips lazily a few times before he reaches over, holds onto the window sill next to Mickey with one arm and slides the other under Mickey’s shirt, gripping and kneading the skin there. Settling his weight more on Mickey’s back and pulling him closer, he starts to really fuck into him.

“Fuck!” Mickey stutters out and holds onto the wall and window in front of him. Ian snaps his hips hard and fast into him, pushing deep. He needs to dig into the mattress with his knees for purchase in order to hold against Ian’s hard thrusts as the latter keeps pounding into him. It’s all he can do. He holds on and he takes everything Ian gives him. It’s so fucking good. Mickey has never been fucked so deep and so hard. He wants this to never end.

They’re both groaning and breathing heavily and the harsh sound of skin slapping against skin is utterly obscene in the quiet of the room. With one arm holding against the window, he reaches his other arm behind him and holds onto Ian’s hip, digging his fingers into him as Ian keeps fucking him.

“Mickey…” Ian pushes out breathlessly. He drops his head to the back of Mickey’s neck and Mickey hears him inhale. Ian squeezes him, pulling him impossibly closer as he grinds into him so deep, Mickey feels like he’s being impaled.

“Fucking hell…” Mickey moans out.

And then Ian is at it again and keeps fucking him in that harsh pace and he has to laugh, because it’s just so much fun. Ian joins him and leans his head against Mickey’s, laughing into his ear. He feels Ian’s hair tickle him a little, smells the remnants of his hair product, enjoys the gentle press of his cheek against the side of his head. He lets go of Ian’s hip and instead reaches up, brushing his fingers through Ian’s soft hair. Ian’s arm around his front tightens and he digs his fingers into the skin around his chest.

“I’m close,” Ian says.

“Fuck… Me too,” Mickey replies.

“Can you come like this?” Ian whispers into his ear and Mickey can feel the smile while he says it. He huffs out a laugh.

“Show me what you’ve got, big guy,” Mickey simply replies.

Ian lets go of the window sill and instead wraps his hand from below around Mickey’s lower arm currently pressing against the glass. With his other he reaches for Mickey’s left thigh and spreads his legs further. He moves with him lower, accommodates the spread of his legs to match Mickey, and rolls his hips deep into him. Mickey’s hand grips onto Ian’s arm, seeking further purchase, when Ian presses impossibly closer. On a particular intense roll of his hips, Mickey stutters out his breath, gripping tightly onto Ian. Ian does it again and now that he’s found it, he’s pushing with intent against Mickey’s spot inside.

“Fuck, that’s it, Ian…” Mickey says and lets his head hanging, breathing through the stimulation. Ian keeps on rubbing over his prostrate, exerting pressure on it. And it really doesn’t take much anymore for Mickey to finally come. “ _Fuck, Ian!_ ”

He comes hard, uncontrolled, the orgasm ripping through his body and he clings to Ian where he’s holding onto his arm. Stuttering out his breath, his muscles coil tight, his fingers digging into Ian’s skin, his ass squeezing Ian’s dick.

“I can’t- _fuck, Mickey!_ ” Ian cries out, digging his own fingers into where he’s holding onto Mickey’s thigh.

When the intensity finally ebbs away, Mickey relaxes. Letting out a breathless laugh, he sags a bit forward, holding onto the window. That was earth-shattering. Absolutely everything Mickey could have ever hoped to get out of sex.

Ian thrusts three more times into him and then pulls out. He feels him coming on his ass and lower back, hears him moan shakily. He lets his head rest on Mickey’s shoulder for a moment, breathing heavily.

His thighs are killing him and he wants to collapse onto the mattress. Ian has already gotten off the bed, snagged Mickey’s towel he used from his earlier shower, and cleans Mickey off from where he came on him. Mickey pulls up his boxer shorts and then crawls up the bed, throwing himself on the mattress while Ian is wiping away at the places where Mickey had shot his load to. Tossing the towel away, Ian grabs his bottle of water and empties half of it in one go. Seeing Ian standing there naked and fucked out, his limp dick hanging between his legs, he can’t believe how fucking gorgeous the guy is. Ian hands him the rest of the water and then grabs his boxer shorts, pulling it on. Mickey already misses the sight.

Ian climbs into bed next to him with a sigh, immediately relaxing.

“Damn, Gallagher, you fuck like you were made for it,” Mickey says.

Tilting his head to Mickey, he simply shrugs. So he knows, Mickey thinks, snorting. They’re sharing Ian’s one pillow and their heads are angled toward each other. Ian does this thing where he obviously thinks of something while looking at him and Mickey has no clue what it is. It’s a bit hard to keep the eye contact in these moments, to not make a smart comment. He drops his gaze and focuses on Ian’s freckles instead. Even in the dark he can make them out; they’re peppered everywhere on Ian’s face. Mickey doesn’t know what it is, but he really likes them. The corner of his mouth twitches, remembering that Ian’s dick had freckles too. Absolutely perfect. Just like Ian seems to be. Fucking was amazing. He always liked sex, but he didn’t ever think it could be like this. Amazing. Fun. Perfect. And it feels like he’s only scratched the surface of what is possible with Ian. He already can’t wait to do it again. A thought creeps into Mickey’s mind and he almost laughs out loud. If there really is something to all that fate and universe bullshit, he kind of understands now why Ian can’t heal him. Whoever decided on these things must have thought they’ve given Mickey enough favors with Ian already. They probably ran out of mold and all that jazz.

Ian is just perfect to Mickey.

And now Mickey feels like a teenage girl waxing poetics. He’s always been anxious of what would happen if he gave in to certain things he wanted. To Ian. And it’s still a bit terrifying. Being around Ian feels like letting go more and more without knowing what will happen once he’s completely let go. Actively ignoring his instincts and to just be, it’s not something he’s ever done before Ian. Ian has this power over him to make him feel like he can breathe again. The tightness around his chest seems to lift off him when he’s around him. He doesn’t feel like he’s drowning any longer. He doesn’t want to give that up anymore, but he’s also terrified what it all means.

Ian’s foot hooks up under Mickey’s right leg and it makes Mickey startle out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“It really is in the eyes,” Ian says cryptically. Mickey raises his eyebrows, not understanding, but Ian just smiles to himself and shakes his head.

Mickey is tired now. With all that’s happened today, coupled with all those sleepless nights on the run, Mickey feels like he could sleep until the end of the week. And despite being squeezed to fit on this small bed next to Ian, he knows he could.

Ian grabs at Mickey and rolls them over to the side until he’s wrapped his arm around his stomach and lined himself up behind him. He snuggles his face into the back of his neck and pulls him closer.

“Ian,” Mickey says annoyed.

“Part of the deal, remember?” Ian mumbles.

Mickey huffs. He isn’t sure he will ever get used to this, but Ian is warm and smells nice. It doesn’t seem to be the worst thing in the world. He can give in to one more of the things that make him feel good. He can let go just a little more.

LT ♡ LT

When Mickey had the suspicion that he had only scratched the surface of what sex with Ian could be like, he was right. Sex with Ian is exciting. They seem to just click, to connect. And while Mickey isn’t really surprised it’s definitely blowing his mind. Ian seems to think similar and they’ve been riding that wave of sexual exploration any time they can get away with it. It gets difficult not to forget everything around them. Since they still need to go to school, study, work, and take care of Ian’s siblings, they have to resolutely find ways to bridle their enthusiasm. It’s been challenging. Ian has to keep talking him out of blowing off school and studying. Under the prospect of fooling around with Ian, it’s hard to remember why Mickey gives a shit about school.

But then the test results trickle back in and suddenly it’s not so hard to remind himself why. Seeing his hard work pay off is kind of rewarding.

“What did you get?” Mickey asks Ian as they’re meeting after their respective classes in the hallway.

“B,” Ian says happily and holds out his Trigonometry test. “You?”

Mickey grins and mirrors him by holding out his Physics test; at the top right corner in red it says B. Ian reacts excited and takes it out of his hand, cursory going through his answers. He throws his arm casually over Mickey’s shoulders as they’re walking to their next class.

“That’s your second B this round. Amazing!” He says, leaning his weight on him, making them list to the side. Mickey pushes them to the other side and they start a playful tug and push.

“Yeah, man, crazy times,” Mickey replies, shaking his head. He’d gotten another B in English again which means he’s actually averaging on a B now in that subject. Who would have thought?

In the other subjects he ended up placing in the middle field, his grades ranging from C- to C+, except for Spanish which came back another D. And Statistics is still outstanding. Mrs. Daughenbough has taken over as principal and is now a lot busier which is why she hasn’t managed to go over their tests yet. A few of his classes have even been canceled since she wasn’t available. The problem is if he gets another F, he won’t be able to average it out anymore. Which means he won’t graduate. And all the hard work they put in will be for nothing. While he decided to keep going to school after Principal Allen died, Mickey knows he wouldn’t repeat another year. If he doesn’t make it this time, he’s out. He won’t graduate with Ian. Mickey tries not to think too much about it, but they both know everything is riding on that outstanding test result. At least sex has been a good distraction.

“All these Bs you’re getting now… I think you deserve to be rewarded, don’t you?” Ian says.

Smirking, Mickey raises his eyebrows interested.

“I’m listening,” he replies as they’re walking up the stairs.

“I was thinking B as in blowjob?” Ian suggests quietly into his ear and then pulls back, wiggling his eyebrows.

“If this is your reward system, I might just end up going back to collecting Fs,” Mickey retorts amused with a huff.

“No, you won’t, but if you ever get an A, how about some ass-eating?” Ian whispers.

Mickey outright laughs. He likes that idea.

“This is why you’re my study partner. Very nurturing environment you’re creating,” Mickey replies, still laughing. “So, when can I cash in my Bs, Gallagher?”

“Liam is on a playdate today,” Ian simply responds.

“It just so happens that Statistics was canceled again,” Mickey adds.

They both look at each other, grinning.

LT ♡ LT

Ian introducing his new reward system has opened up a number of other innovative ways of getting Mickey to diligently do his homework and study. Mostly it’s Ian spurring him on, motivating him to do his homework by letting him know what he’s going to do to him once he finishes up. And if Mickey does especially well, Ian seems to encourage the concept of positive reinforcement. The only times Ian has been pushing him hard is when they study for Spanish, since it’s Mickey’s weak subject. Has outright been cruel. At first when Ian had proposed a new study method to help him remember their vocabulary list, Mickey was all for it. Because everything Ian has come up with so far has been absolutely fun. So when he asked him if he locked the door – the standard precursory question between the two whenever they are about to fool around – and proceeded to pull his pants off, Mickey thought he was in for a good time. In a sense he had a very good time, but not good enough. The rules were he had to recall the batch of vocabulary perfectly in the time period of fifteen minutes. All while Ian was jacking him off and opening him up. If he managed to successfully go through the list by the end of the allotted time, Ian would fuck him. That had sounded enticing enough for Mickey to agree to the terms, but he hadn’t really thought Ian would remain consequent and not fuck him if he didn’t get the vocabulary right as well. He wouldn’t even finish him off and had just left him on the edge, breathless and frustrated, when he had failed. According to him, it wouldn’t do Mickey any good, if he got what he wanted either way. And he needs to turn things around in Spanish, to improve his average. Mickey needs enticement to want to remember their vocabulary. Until he didn’t get the vocab right, no fucking for Mickey on those nights. No matter how much Mickey complained or what he did to persuade him otherwise, Ian would remain stubborn. Ian has given him the opportunity to retry any night he wants, but the rules would still apply and if he didn’t get it right, they also wouldn’t fuck. Mickey has tried three times already and failed. He is getting increasingly frustrated with this game.

On his fourth try he’s only got thirty seconds left and he’s almost through. He just can’t recall the last one.

“Come on, Mick. Only one more. You know this,” Ian says, wiggling his fingers with purpose inside him. He’s rubbing the head of Mickey’s dick with his other hand. Looking nervously from the clock on the dresser to Mickey, he pushes him. “Fifteen seconds. We went over this. Mickey!”

He bites into Mickey’s thigh which is currently thrown over Ian’s shoulder and Mickey grunts in frustration, crumbling the paper in his fist.

“ _La calma… antes de la tormenta_ _…!_ ” Mickey exclaims breathlessly.

“Fuck, finally…” Ian says, sounding relieved.

“I got it right?” Mickey asks, heaving his head forward to look down at Ian from where he is lying propped up on their bunched up pillows against the wall.

“Yes, all correct. You did well, Mickey,” Ian replies, kneading his thigh in encouragement.

“I hate this game. You’re such a little fucker, Ian,” Mickey says, remembering the moment where Ian was playing with his prostrate and it completely wiped his mind blank.

“You’ll thank me tomorrow. Trust me. You won’t get the words wrong during the vocab test this time. No way you’re forgetting this so quickly,” Ian says confidently.

“Or I’ll just spring a boner during,” Mickey retorts sarcastically.

“Could go either way,” Ian admits, thinking about it.

“Genius plan, Ian. Does your big brain have any other grand ideas or will you finally follow through on what you promised? I won. Fuck. Now,” Mickey says eloquently.

“Any special requests? You deserve it,” Ian asks sweetly. He’s hurrying out of his clothes and when he slips off his boxers Mickey can see how hard he already is. Seems like Mickey isn’t the only one who hated this game.

“At this point I don’t even fucking care anymore as long as you do all the work,” Mickey says tiredly.

“Don’t I always?” Ian retorts cockily, slipping between Mickey’s legs. Mickey raises an eyebrow and then wraps his legs around Ian’s hips, harshly pulling him into him.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch, and fuck me,” he says, grinding against Ian.

Ian laughs and, unceremoniously, slips into him. Ian fucks him hard and deep. Winning has never felt better.

And turns out he got his first A in his vocab test. It’s hard to argue with results. Especially when he cashes in his hard earned reward.

LT ♡ LT

Mickey agreed to help Debbie keep Betsy alive while Ian is still in his last class and is currently sitting on the couch, watching some random renovation show on mute as the kids play around the living room. Debbie hasn’t looked up from her phone since he sat down half an hour ago and he has already heard something fall and break twice now. It’s a miracle these kids are still alive. Especially Betsy. Mickey rolls his eyes and sighs annoyed when he sees Shelly and Lacey pull on her arms from each side. He looks over to Debbie, waiting for her to do something, but she might as well be in another universe. Nothing registers with her.

“You mind keeping these kids in check?” He says expectantly. She hums, but doesn’t look up from her phone, typing eagerly away.

When Mickey sees the lamp in the corner fall, he makes an exasperated gesture and gets up. He really hopes Debbie never gets kids of her own.

“Hey! Big nose, watch it! Put that lamp back up or I’ll come over there and tie you to it!” He barks, pointing a finger at the blond kid with the Ninja Turtles shirt. Then he turns to Shelly and Lacey, grabs them by their back collars, and lifts them up. “And you two, how many times do I have to tell you to stop fucking with Betsy? Enough is enough! I see you put one more finger on her and I will rip _your_ skinny little arms out. Got it?”

The evil twins seem to find that funny and so he drops them unceremoniously, shaking his head exasperated.

“Get!” He says and points toward the other side of the room. When they hop away giggling, he turns his attention to Betsy. “What is wrong with you? They clearly have it out for you and you keep playing with them. I’ve never seen anyone have zero self-preservation instincts like you. Stop getting pushed around. Next time they harass you, I wanna see you fight back! Punch, kick, scratch… Don’t care how, just put them on their asses.”

Betsy just tilts her head and looks up at him with wide curious eyes. Mickey shakes his head, giving up on her, since apparently he’s not getting anywhere no matter how often he keeps telling her to stand up for herself. He’ll just have to keep an eye on the wicked sisters he supposes. He marches back and plops down on the couch again. Not a second later does he see the lamp fall again. Mickey exhales deeply.

“What the hell is so interesting on that phone that you wouldn’t even notice the house catch on fire?” Mickey asks, throwing a pillow at Debbie.

“Sorry…” Debbie says distractedly, finally looking up at him. “Just these girls from school. They think my boyfriend is out of my league and they have stuff to say.”

“Fuck that. Want me and my cousins to pay them a visit?” He asks casually while skipping through the TV program.

“Thanks, but I can handle it. They’re just petty and jealous. I can’t believe they used to be my friends,” she says, throwing her phone to the side.

“Girls suck,” he simply retorts and then glances to her, remembering she’s also a girl. “You’re okay, I guess.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Please don’t,” Mickey replies. Debbie has no filter. Conversations with her get awkward real fast.

“How did Ian make that hickey?” She asks, staring at his neck.

Mickey immediately slaps his hand to his neck, feeling around. That fucker left a hickey on him without him noticing. And how does Debbie immediately think Ian did this? While Ian and Mickey aren’t particularly a secret in this house, they’ve been keeping it under wraps. Short of being forced to let the Gallaghers know they share a bed, they haven’t let on that they’re together. At least Mickey thought they had been inconspicuous. They never touch or kiss each other in front of them. Having Debbie call out his hickey, out of all things, is absolutely mortifying.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He grumbles, not taking his hand off.

“That little love bite on your neck. How do you do that? Do you just nibble the skin? For how long? Does it hurt?” She asks.

“Don’t call it a love bite! Jesus Christ! I caught a ball during P.E.; it’s a bruise!”

Debbie just gives him that look that clearly says she isn’t buying it.

“What about that one?” She says, pulling his sleeveless shirt back to show another mark next to his shoulder blade. “That looks like teeth indentations.”

“Okay, okay,” he barks, jerking away from her. He faintly remembers Ian biting him there. Mickey is going to kill him.

“Tell me, how do you leave a hickey?” She asks. Mickey doesn’t know if he wouldn’t rather prefer talking about her period again.

“Why are you asking me? I thought you had a boyfriend?” He deflects, his eyes aimlessly flickering around the room.

She looks at her hands, fiddling around with her fingers.

“We haven’t been intimate yet… I tried to kiss him and, you know, get things going. I tried to leave a hickey under his ear, but I didn’t really know what I was doing,” she says dejectedly.

Mickey wonders how they haven’t had sex yet. It’s practically all she’s been working toward ever since she got together with her boyfriend. Unless of course she was exaggerating again and they hadn’t _technically_ been together yet when she announced it loud and proud to Fiona.

“What do guys like? Do I just like throw myself at him? Or should I act all coy?”

“Go ask your brothers! Why the hell are you coming to me with this?” Mickey demands bewildered.

“It’s a bit weird to ask my brothers for sex advice, Mickey,” she says as if that should be obvious.

Mickey thinks it weirder that she is asking him. This is the most uncomfortable conversation of his life.

“Then go ask Fiona! Do girls talk or whatever! I don’t care! Just don’t come to me!”

“I’ll let Liam sleep in my room tonight, if you answer my questions,” Debbie says.

Mickey wants to tell her off again, the words already loaded, but the thought of having the room to themselves for the whole night is so enticing. He swallows. Debbie takes Mickey’s silence as permission to go ahead and ask her questions.

“Do you like when Ian leaves hickeys on you?” Debbie asks curiously, sitting closer.

“Fuck no!” Mickey barks aggravated. He hadn’t even realized Ian having started to do this shit.

“Do you not like that it leaves marks or do you not like Ian doing it?”

For some reason he’s ended up talking with a teenage girl about his sex life with her brother. Forget the world blackout, the fact that he can heal broken bones, _this_ is the weirdest development of his life.

He can’t help but to take a moment to think about it.

“First one,” he mutters.

Debbie nods eagerly, as if she is taking mental notes.

“How does it feel?”

“Come on! I’m not answering these weird-ass questions!”

“I’ll cook and feed Liam tonight too. He’s off your hands,” she bargains.

Mickey fights with himself for a moment. He ends up brushing his hand over his face in defeat. He goes over his memories, remembers the times Ian would kiss his neck or back or thigh… When Ian puts his mouth on him and works on his skin, it usually makes him feel a bit weird. But the sensation isn’t unpleasant.

“Feels good…”

“Could you be a bit more specific?” She asks exasperated.

“No,” Mickey grumbles.

She sighs, but doesn’t push further.

“How do you leave hickeys?”

“Kiss, lick, suck. Bite if you have to,” Mickey replies and hopes if he’s short with her, this conversation is over sooner.

“I have to suck?” She asks surprised.

“Jesus- Yes, you have to- You know what, figure it out yourself!” Mickey shoots back.

“That’s why…” She mumbles to herself distractedly and Mickey looks up to the ceiling for help. “Next question.”

“Good. More,” he mutters.

“What turns you on?” She asks. Mickey almost chokes on air. “Like what does Ian need to do to get you in the mood?”

“Nothing! We’re guys for fuck’s sake. We want sex all the time. You just need to ask,” Mickey explains annoyed.

“Matt didn’t want sex,” she says and he assumes she means her ex-boyfriend. “So there isn’t anything specific that he needs to do to, you know, make you interested?”

“No, have you looked at your brother? Not much convincing needed,” he retorts.

“So you don’t mind the red hair?” She asks and her voice sounds a bit small. He looks over to her, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I fucking love that ginger head,” he replies almost incredulously. He’s come to realize he’s got a whole fixation on that red hair of Ian’s. Objectively he understands not everybody likes red-heads, but those people clearly have no taste.

His answer seems to make Debbie happy. She opens her mouth to ask her next question, but Mickey gets ahead of her.

“Freckles are hot too.”

“You must really have it bad for my brother,” Debbie says, giggling.

“This conversation is over,” Mickey says and turns off the TV.

“No! One more question! I promise just one more!”

Debbie grabs him by his arm to keep him on the couch. She looks at him pleadingly.

“One!” He relents and settles back.

“Thanks, Mick,” she says and then thinks carefully about her last question. “What made you fall in love with Ian?”

Mickey snaps his eyes to her. The question completely catches him off-guard.

 _Love_.

The word seems too surreal to fit into the realms of Mickey’s tiny universe. It’s an entirely too foreign concept for Mickey to make sense of and so he stares at her, his brain feeling like it has stuttered to a stop. And then he remembers Ian having said something similar. Ian had claimed that Mickey was gay and loved him. He’s still inclined to think that’s not true. Milkoviches aren’t fags. Fags get beaten. And while he likes to have sex with guys he could never love them. He doesn’t even know what that means or what that’s supposed to feel like. What the fuck is love? Surely nothing Mickey would ever apply to himself and his world.

“Hey guys,” they hear Lip’s voice and Mickey startles to look over to the kitchen entrance where he is standing with Liam up on his right arm and holding onto the shirt of another kid he dragged into the living room after coming home. “Is anybody actually watching these kids?”

They look at the boy currently covered in peanut butter and cereal.

They might have forgotten to take note of their surroundings while talking. Cursing, he startles up from the couch when he sees Betsy tightly wrapped in the lamp’s electrical cord. The twins sitting on the window sill, looking down at her as they’re giggling.

He’s pretty sure Betsy won’t make it to her fifth birthday.

LT ♡ LT

Mickey escapes upstairs afterward and hides in Ian and his room. He can’t deal with more of Debbie. All this talk about hickeys and love… their relationship isn’t like that. They’re just Ian and Mickey. They’re having a good time. Love doesn’t have anything to do with this.

Standing in the middle of the room, having just brushed both of his hands over his face, he glances around. The bed is rumpled exactly as they had left it behind this morning when Mickey had to fight to extricate himself from Ian’s hold. He sees his clothes half hanging out from the dresser and his own key lying in the bowl with the change money. His eyes wander to the printed picture on the wall Ian had forced him into taking with him. Taped right next to his newspaper article. This room makes him feel… Like his chest is too full. As if the feeling is creeping up his neck, threatening to suffocate him in a very different way than what he had been struggling with before. It feels too much. Like he’s slowly losing control. Losing his grip on the place he’s lived in for so long. The place that he knows, that is familiar, it’s slipping through his fingers. His instincts tell him to hold tight.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Mickey thinks growing up the way he did, he was never meant to be able to handle this type of feeling.

He sighs helplessly when he hears somebody running up the stairs. When he turns around he sees Ian hopping excitedly into the room. Smiling, he kicks the door shut behind him and walks up to Mickey, slings his arms around his waist, holds him tight, and crashes their lips together, kissing him eagerly. Mickey forgets all thoughts for a moment as Ian presses into him and keeps on kissing him. Ian licks into his mouth and Mickey reflexively reciprocates. They keep kissing for a while until Ian squeezes him one more time and lets go with a content hum.

Not quite understanding what got into Ian, Mickey eyes him confused.

“The fuck is up with you?”

Ian grins widely and Mickey can’t help but think it’s absolutely dazzling.

“Chemistry grade came back,” he says.

“Oh? Let’s hear it,” Mickey replies. That’s the test Ian had been slaving away studying for, having been worried he’d get another D.

“B+,” he says proudly.

“What a nerd, get out of here,” Mickey says, laughing and shoves him playfully. Ian chimes in laughing too and reaches for him. They start pushing and pulling on each other, fighting a little bit, until Mickey ruffles through Ian’s hair, shoving him away. “Nice job, Gallagher. This what got you all excited?”

Ian grabs him by his hips and roughly pulls Mickey against him, smiling down at him.

“That and I just got a text from my co-worker. He asked if he could take my shift on Friday. Which means…” He says, raising one of his eyebrows as he purses his lips.

“Which means what?” Mickey asks, licking the inside of his cheek.

“We could stay in, celebrate my outstanding test result,” Ian says, crowding him backward.

“Why wait until then?” Mickey grabs him, spins them around, and then pushes Ian onto the bed.

“Liam-”

“Took care of it. We can do whatever we want tonight, _all night_ ,” Mickey says. Remembering that mortifying conversation with Debbie, he’s choosing to go with the mood instead of ripping Ian a new one for leaving those hickeys on him. He can do that later.

Ian smirks up at him.

“Did you lock the door?”

Of course he didn’t. Ian saw him not locking it, but that’s not the point of the question. Mickey smirks back and walks over, turning the lock as he looks at Ian. Ian gets up to shrug out of his jacket and Mickey swiftly lifts his shirt over his head, kicks his shoes off, and walks back to Ian.

“I think you worked hard and deserve to be rewarded as well,” Mickey says magnanimously, pushing him back onto the bed.

“What did you have in mind?” Ian asks, looking at him curiously.

“If I get a blowjob for every B, ‘s only fair you should too,” he replies.

Mickey has never blown anyone so far, but he’s been playing with the thought every time he’s looked at Ian’s dick lately. Whenever he hooked up with somebody it was just quick fucks, trying to get off as quickly as possible. He never entertained the thought of getting on his knees for anyone. Being a Milkovich didn’t always allow him to try out things during sex he wanted for fear of having his reputation threatened. Anything that would remotely suggest he was a bitch was off the table. It took him a long time to allow a guy to top him. And even then he carefully chose his partners. Fucking guys was dangerous enough. Giving them reasons to not take him seriously, to not fear him, could have easily made rumors circle around South Side. But with Ian he knows he can just be. Is allowed to like what he likes and not feel bad about it. Knows that he doesn’t have to think beyond chasing the next orgasm in any which way, because there aren’t any consequences to it. He trusts Ian implicitly. This room is a safe space. And now that there is a million things suddenly on the table, Mickey wants to explore them all. Including finding out what it’s like blowing somebody. Ever since he’s seen Ian’s dick, he just can’t stop imagining what he’d taste like. What it would be like to make him come with his mouth. Knowing how good it feels, he really wants to see if he can make Ian come apart.

Ian stares at Mickey with surprise and excitement as he drops down to his knees in front of him. Reaching for his belt, Mickey starts unbuckling it and opening Ian’s zipper. He grabs both his jeans and boxers and pulls them down. Ian is already half hard and he can feel his own dick twitch inside his pants in excitement. He’s a bit disappointed he doesn’t get to feel Ian fill out in his mouth all the way from limp to rock hard, but he guesses there is always next time. He jacks him a couple times, looking up to see Ian completely absorbed watching him. The sight makes him smirk. He enjoys Ian clearly being excited for him.

Pulling his attention to Ian’s dick, he licks his lips. Following the length with his eyes, he wants to know what the skin tastes like. He positions his head low and sticks his tongue out to lick along the underside from one end all the way to the head and then he wraps his lips around it, sucking once to get his first taste. Ian moans and when he glances up, he sees him throwing his head back. He can see Ian filling out and, not wanting to miss out on what that feels like, he slides along his dick, taking more of him into his mouth. He feels him getting harder and it’s such a glorious feeling, he immediately sucks on it. He slides off him, keeping a tight seal, and he can feel Ian’s thigh quiver under his hand. He goes down on him a few more times to repeat the motion until he’s fully hard and Mickey takes a moment to just look at that fucking beautiful dick. He fondles Ian’s balls while he just enjoys the sight and then he wraps his lips around the head again, sucking on it. Ian stutters out a groan and Mickey sees his hands ball into fists in the sheets where he’s propped up on his elbows. Wanting to make him feel more, he slides down again. A deep, punched out exhale forces itself out of Ian, when the head reaches Mickey’s throat and Mickey keeps him there. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but he swallows through the gag reflex. It’s not as hard as he thought it would be, but his eyes water a little in reaction. He takes a bit more of him in, trying to get used to the sensation. He holds him at the back of his throat, swallowing around him, hearing Ian continue to moan while he does it.

“Oh God, Mickey…”

While it seems like Ian is clearly enjoying the sensation, Mickey is a bit miffed he only got halfway down Ian’s dick. He wants to see if he can take more later, but for now he works with what he can and sets a pace, sucking Ian off. Ian keeps letting out little noises, his breathing becoming erratic. He likes the feeling of his lips stretching around Ian’s hard dick, likes the weight on his tongue.

He keeps the pace for a bit, working him. Here and there he holds Ian’s dick against his throat or just sucks a bit on the head, listening to the sounds it rips out of Ian. He pushes a little further down, taking more of Ian, feeling the head push hard against his throat, and he hears Ian let out a loud groan.

Ian reaches for Mickey’s head and brushes his fingers through his hair, gripping lightly on it. The sensation gets to Mickey’s dick and he wants to see how far he can push Ian. He sets a hard pace sucking him off and immediately Ian’s grip tightens. Giving head is fucking fun, Mickey thinks. He likes the sensation, the taste, the control… Even the roughness of choking really turns him on. He sets a few deep, forceful motions that practically jab Ian’s dick against his throat and he holds him there for a few seconds each time. Ian absolutely loses it, moaning uncontrolled, shaking hard, and pulling on Mickey’s hair. Mickey hums, liking it, and the sensation has Ian grab him with his other hand too, moaning shakily.

Ian’s forward movement pushes his dick in against the rhythm Mickey set and Mickey has to slip off him for a moment to fight the gag reflex. Ian grips Mickey’s head and keeps him from continuing. Catching his breath, Mickey eyes him as he licks the spit from around his mouth. Looking down at him, Ian brushes his thumb under Mickey’s eye, wiping the slight wetness away.

“I think I’ll be the first one to die from a blowjob…” Ian says breathlessly.

“Can’t handle it, Gallagher?” Mickey replies, smirking.

“Until you see yourself hanging off my dick I don’t want to hear that. You suck dick like a porn star,” Ian says and he makes that face where he can’t fucking believe what’s happening.

“Let’s see if we can’t make you enjoy yourself a little more,” Mickey says, licking his lips. He takes him in his mouth again and this time he wants more.

“M-Mickey, I don’t think you can go deeper…” Ian stutters from the sensation Mickey’s attempt causes.

Mickey can feel Ian’s dick pushing against the back of his throat and he knows he could take more, it’s just this angle that’s giving him trouble forcing himself further down. He swallows around the intrusion for a moment, until he pulls off, wiping the spit from his chin.

“Okay, change of plans, big guy. Switch with me,” he says as he gets up and pulls Ian to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Ian asks confused, watching Mickey settle himself on the bed.

Mickey plants himself flat on his back and then moves up so his head hangs from the edge.

“Move it. I’m not done with you yet,” Mickey says, reaching for his legs and pulling him down.

Ian laughs, apparently not quite able to believe where this is headed as he falls to his knees in front of Mickey. They share a look for a moment and then Ian leans down, cups his face, and kisses him. It’s a bit strange kissing upside down, but Ian seems to enjoy the angle, leaving a lot of short deep presses against his lips. This is not exactly what Mickey wants to do right now, but Ian keeps it brief enough.

“Are you sure?” Ian asks, looking down to him.

Mickey raises his eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Now feed me your dick, bitch,” Mickey says.

Ian raises his own eyebrow in return.

“You’re gonna eat those words, I hope you know that,” Ian replies and lines himself up.

Mickey simply grabs him by his ass and opens his mouth to take Ian’s dick. Ian lets out a shaky breath and starts a slow, shallow pace. The angle is definitely preferable to Mickey, but he misses the control he had over it all. Ian thrusts a little too reserved for Mickey’s liking and while he was okay with that in the beginning while he got used to the new position he’s getting impatient fast.

“Come on, Gallagher… Fuck my mouth like you mean it,” he spurrs him on as he takes in air into his lungs.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Ian tightens his grip on Mickey’s head and pushes in. And then he starts fucking his mouth. That is more like it, Mickey thinks. Ian being rough with him is a huge turn-on. The guy just knows how to give Mickey what he wants. Has just the right force behind his grip and thrusts. Knows how to edge him on. And he likes how he can rile him up in turn. How he can take what Ian is giving him. How he can build further on his energy and make Ian go crazy.

On any other day he would drag this out, but the purpose of switching positions was to explore how much more of Ian’s dick Mickey can take. When Mickey gives him a signal and pushes his chin forward, Ian understands and pushes against his throat, forcing himself further and further. His air is being cut off and Mickey has to remind himself to stay relaxed. He holds onto Ian’s ass, feeling his eyes water. Ian grunts harshly, apparently trying to handle the feeling of Mickey’s throat squeezing his dick. He slides in just a bit further and then pulls out, letting Mickey gasp for air.

“ _Fuck, Mickey_ …” Ian says and he falls a bit forward, catching himself with one hand on Mickey’s chest as he tries to calm down.

When he pushes back in, he continues straight where he left off. Mickey feels every fraction of an inch Ian pushes further in. Tries to stay relaxed against the choking sensation and just takes what Ian gives him. He swallows around him, trying not to gag against the massive intrusion. They go back and forth a couple more times until Ian needs to take a brief moment and Mickey sucks much needed air into his lungs.

“I’m not gonna last long here, Mickey… You have no idea how you feel,” Ian groans, holding the base of his dick.

Breathing heavily, Mickey feels tears roll into his hair, feels the spit coat his lips. His dick is so hard inside his pants, he rubs a hand against it to get some friction. Mickey takes Ian’s dick back into his mouth and Ian simply thrusts a few times until he pushes back deep. His dick feels so much bigger when it’s forcing itself down his throat, but he likes the feeling of being able to take more of Ian. To hear him moan uncontrolled. To feel his grip on his head tighten. He loves that he can make Ian feel so hot and bothered. Hearing him moan like that gets his dick twitching. He opens his pants and reaches into the slit of his boxers to jack himself off. With his other hand he keeps holding onto Ian’s ass as the latter keeps thrusting back and forth.

He can see and feel that Ian is close and so Mickey tightens his grip on Ian and presses him further into him, feeling his dick slide so fucking deep. Ian lets out a long suffering moan and Mickey keeps him in that position, suppressing his gag reflex and ignoring his body’s demand for air.

“ _Mickey!_ F-Fuck… I can’t- _Fuck!_ ”

He taps him repeatedly and pulls out of his throat. Mickey doesn’t let him pull out completely though and keeps him in his mouth while he comes. Mickey never tasted cum before either, but the thought that it’s Ian’s load makes him swallow eagerly.

Breathing heavily, Ian practically collapses, his upper body resting on the mattress next to him. Mickey keeps jacking himself off, licking the remnants of Ian’s cum from his mouth. Ian watches him with hooded eyes and reaches over to wrap his hand around Mickey’s. He adds a bit of pressure, ups the pace, and together they jerk Mickey off. Ian moves closer and slings his arm under Mickey’s head, coming up and around to cradle his chin, and then kisses him. He outright licks into his mouth and he must be tasting himself from having just come inside him, but he doesn’t seem to care or might even be chasing the taste. It’s filthy and hot and Mickey comes, groaning into Ian’s mouth.

They’re both panting, wordlessly coming down from their highs. This was really fun, Mickey thinks. It was dirty and intense and he liked every minute of it. His throat hurts, but in a very satisfying way. He would definitely like to do this again.

Ian still has Mickey’s head cradled in his arm and he leans back down. Drained, Mickey glances over. Sees him watching him intently, before he kisses him again. The heat from a moment is gone. Instead he slowly kisses him in this upside down position. His fingers caress over his chin and hip bone.

It takes Mickey a moment to pull out of that pleasant post-orgasm haze to realize how gentle Ian is with him. His mouth wanders over his chin to his throat, leaving tiny little kisses behind. Mickey opens his eyes. Now that he thinks about it Ian has been like this the past few times after they fucked as well. Just holding onto him and kissing him needlessly. Brushing his hand over his side or sliding his fingers through his hair. Licking and nibbling along his skin.

Leaving hickeys…

These touches never go anywhere. They have no purpose. While they might sometimes move on for a second round, these ministrations are usually not the precursor to it. It’s not meant to get him in the mood, to rile them up. Ian is just hanging onto him and keeps on kissing him.

He tries to get up, but Ian is holding him pinned to the bed. He licks along Mickey’s throat and starts sucking on his skin.

“Ian,” he says and his voice sounds raspy.

He startles a little when Ian deliberately manipulates their bond to settle on his hurt throat. It’s become so easy to block their connection out, it simply having become another extension of themselves they got used to constantly feeling. He feels him taking the pain as he keeps on kissing him. His lips wander the broad expanse of his throat, licking and sucking leisurely. His thumb still caresses his chin ever so slightly. His other hand rests warmly against his hip.

He feels it again. This feeling from earlier when he was standing in the middle of the room. When he felt like he couldn’t breathe. When everything felt too much. The way Ian touches him has no purpose. It’s just soft and warm and gentle. This isn’t how people touch him. This feeling it brings threatens to suffocate him. He doesn’t know how to cope with feeling like… Feeling like… Feeling like he’s being…

Mickey sucks in a breath and extricates himself out of Ian’s hold, sitting up on the bed.

“You okay?” Ian asks, straightening up in reaction.

Mickey looks over his shoulder, sees Ian watching him with slight concern.

“Yeah…” He says, his gaze flickering around the room. He takes a breath and then gets up from the bed. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

LT ♡ LT

Sitting in class, Mickey stares ahead at nothing in particular. His mind hasn’t really been paying attention. When he had read on the school board that his Statistics class wouldn’t be canceled today, he was positive he’d get his test result back. If he gets another F, he won’t graduate. They could potentially already tell today that he won’t make it to graduation. He was living in this sex bubble for so long now that getting his Statistics test finally back feels like a bucket of ice cold water bringing him back to reality.

Mickey is not the kind of person who gets nervous over stupid ass shit.

While he actually took school seriously the past months, all in all it’s just a stupid test score. His life has never revolved around school. Or the idea of a high school diploma. And he certainly doesn’t believe his future would be better for it. Hell, he doesn’t even think he will make use of the diploma even if he were to get it. He is not a minimum wage, 9-5 kind of person and he never will be. This entire graduation endeavor is just a whim he is pursuing at this point. He had been forced into this in the beginning and while he decided to see it through until the end, he has no stakes in this. It doesn’t matter if he passes his exams or not. Objectively nothing will change.

Mickey is not the kind of person who gets nervous over stupid ass shit.

One of the reasons, the most influential reason, he decided to stay in school after he was no longer leveraged to be here was Ian. He didn’t want to disrupt the status quo. He wanted to keep spending time with Ian. Their whole relationship is based on this stupid ass study program and it felt strange to not have that be the basis of it any longer. He identified them with this study program and this school. And while dropping out of school wouldn’t jeopardize their relationship, he felt like something essential would suddenly be missing. Not going to school, doing homework, or studying for tests with him, it didn’t feel right. He needed to see this through and so he stayed.

Mickey is not the kind of person who gets nervous over stupid ass shit.

For most of his teen years he’s learned to hide how he feels. _That he feels_ _._ He’s learned not to let on things mattered to him. That there are things that he wants. Because what he wanted was forbidden. And he is starting to realize that at some point he fooled himself into believing that he didn’t want these things. So much so that he feels strange wanting them now. But gradually over the last half a year he’s been wanting more and more. Since he met Ian he gave in to a lot of things he just purely wanted. And now he has things. Things that make him happy. That make him feel free. That make him be him. He’s come to a point of no return, where he knows he wouldn’t ever be able to go back to the past version of him who denied himself these things.

He doesn’t have much of a reason for why, but there is something he just purely wants for the sake of having it. Because it makes him feel good about himself. He wants to graduate even if that doesn’t make much sense in his thug-life Milkovich world. He just _wants_.

Mickey is not the kind of person who gets nervous over stupid ass shit. He is absolutely fucking nervous now.

He _wants_ to have passed this test. He _wants_ to keep having the chance to go on. He _wants_ to make it to graduation.

For most of his life he’s had to learn that he can’t have what he wants. Nothing good ever happens around here. That no matter what he’s fucked for life. This once, Mickey wonders, can something as innocuous such as a Statistics test come back in his favor?

Exhaling, he glances up to Mrs. Daughenbough coming to a stop in front of him. She hands him his graded test back and he takes it.

“Let’s discuss your options after class,” she says softly. She moves on to the next student, lightly patting him on his shoulder.

Looking at the score marked down on the last page, the paper crumples in his grip.

 _N_ _othing good ever happens around here._

LT ♡ LT

“Harder,” Mickey moans, gripping onto Ian’s ass, pulling him into him.

Ian slides his arm across Mickey’s chest, hooks his hand around his shoulder, and pulls him impossibly closer. His hips snap harshly against him as he fucks him hard and deep. With every thrust Mickey is being pressed against the wall. There is no escaping the brunt of Ian pushing into him and he feels his dick bury so fucking deep inside of him.

“Come on, harder,” Mickey says.

“F-Fuck, okay…” Ian exhales breathlessly from where his head is resting against his. At this point it’s like he’s pooling all his strength to his hips and uses it to downright punch into him. It’s pushing him up and almost off the mattress and it hurts so fucking good Mickey groans through clenched teeth.

“Y-Yes, like that… Don’t… stop!” He says while the air is being forced out of his lungs with every thrust.

“What’s… with the energy… today?” Ian asks absolutely breathless.

“Too much of a workout… for you… firecrotch?” Mickey retorts, feeling himself getting close now.

“Not gonna lie… you’re very… demanding… today,” Ian replies, but keeps the pace going.

“Just a bit more… come on… I’m almost there,” Mickey grunts out and holds on through the last punishing thrusts until he comes.

He shutters from the force of his orgasm. He drops his head back onto Ian’s shoulder, panting shakily as the last spurts of cum rip out of him.

He feels Ian tightening his hold on him as he shallowly thrusts into him a couple more times and then slips out, shooting his cum up his back. Exhausted, Ian rests his head at the back of Mickey’s neck, letting him take his weight for a moment while he comes down from his high.

They collapse onto the bed, Ian lying on top of him, both breathing heavily. They’re drenched in sweat. Mickey can feel the cum smeared between his back and Ian’s stomach, can feel Ian’s wet dick against his thigh. They’re gross. And he’s pretty sure his own cum is still dripping down the wall. Fucking is the best, Mickey thinks contently.

“I need a minute. Or possibly an hour,” Ian mumbles into his back, lying boneless on top of him.

Mickey did push him quite a bit, but all the more does he like the fact Ian kept up with him.

“So no round two then?” He says cheekily, wiggling his ass into him.

Ian groans annoyed and slaps his left ass cheek once.

“Pussy,” Mickey snorts, chuckling.

The door opens and Lip strides in with Liam on his arm. Ian lets out a surprised yelp and they both scramble to get the blankets around them.

“Good, you’re finally done.”

“Shit, Lip! How about knocking?” Ian says and then turns to Mickey. “You didn’t lock the door?”

“I thought you locked the door!” Mickey shoots back. He really thought they went over it like they usually did.

“Guys, I like sex just as much as you two, but it’s getting out of hand,” Lip says as he puts Liam down in front of his bed and grabs a change of clothes for him. “Liam rotates sleeping in everyone’s room, because we feel bad for him having to be in this sex stench all the time.”

Looking at Liam, he doesn’t really seem to have an opinion about that, but the message has been received. So much for keeping it inconspicuous, Mickey thinks. Apparently the whole family is completely aware of what’s going on between them.

“Sorry,” Ian says meekly, having trouble looking at Liam.

“Fi promised Liam to watch a movie with him later, but he’s gonna sleep in his own room tonight, okay? It’s not right you can’t crash in your own bed, right, big guy?” Lip asks Liam while he helps him in his pajama pants.

Again, Liam doesn’t seem to have any input, but Mickey supposes it’s true that they’ve been pawning the little fellow off to everyone else lately.

“Also heads-up, Mandy will be here any minute. You might wanna lock the door. For real this time? At some point she’s gonna figure it out, guys. Especially when you’re not even trying to keep it on the low. Do us all a favor and move that bed away from the wall. Every time you fuck the sound carries through this shitty house. There’s only so many times I can tell her it’s faulty pipes.”

Mickey and Ian’s heads tilt toward the wall, where they now notice the paint has come off at places from how the bed must have hit against it. Ian looks sheepishly at his brother.

“Will do. Sorry again.”

Lip nods and then pats Liam on the back to go ahead downstairs. Before he follows him, he sees the cum on the wall and then looks at them. He shakes his head.

“That was only supremely mortifying,” Ian says quietly, sharing a look with Mickey. “You clean up the mess you made and I clean us up.”

Mickey groans annoyed while Ian gets up to the bathroom. After Ian comes back with wet towels and they clean up and put on some clothes, they settle back on the bed, exhausted. Mickey is lying on his stomach, hiding his head in his arms as he relaxes for a bit. His ass smarts and he is happy he can just lie here tonight and not have to bring Ian to work. Fingers brush through his hair and Ian tilts Mickey’s head so he has to look at him. Mickey raises his eyebrow questioningly.

“You okay?” Ian asks him. He’s lying on his side propped up on his elbow facing Mickey while still carding his fingers through his hair.

“Fine,” Mickey merely replies, closing his eyes again.

“Sure?”

And it’s the way he doesn’t let up that has Mickey sigh annoyed and open his eyes again.

“Ass fucking hurts,” he says.

Ian furrows his brows and then glances to Mickey’s ass.

“How does that work by the way? I’ve been wondering this for a while. Shouldn’t you be completely fine? Since I, you know, stick it to you and at the same time connect with you?” He asks making these pointed head jerks along his intonation.

Mickey snorts. Of course Ian would be taking scientific notes about their sex life too.

“Have to hurt first before you can take the pain,” Mickey replies. The same goes for Ian. It’s not like Mickey can keep him from injuring himself. He can only heal him after it happened. He wonders since when he’s become the expert on this whole thing.

“That sucks,” Ian says, furrowing his brows. “It’s a bit of a mean concept, don’t you think?”

“Sounds about right to me,” Mickey replies cynically and shrugs. “Besides, I like this way better. Would take all the fun out of you going to town on me.”

“ _And_ there would go the great opportunity to kiss it better,” Ian says, delighted by his own terrible joke.

“It’s a good thing you have a big dick. Don’t think you’ll find anybody who’d put up with your terrible personality otherwise,” Mickey retorts.

“Good thing I already found somebody to put up with me then,” Ian says, flicking his head.

“Fucker. I’m reconsidering if your dick is worth all this,” Mickey replies annoyed. Ian just looks at him smug, knowing full well it is. Mickey snorts again.

Ian leans in, slides his hand over Mickey’s back, and slips it into his pants, squeezing his ass. Rubbing and kneading over his ass cheeks casually, he lets the bond settle around the area. His other hand brushes through his hair and he dips down to kissing his hairline, trailing over his cheek down to his neck. All the while playing around with their bond.

“I got so used to this feeling, I forgot how nice this can be,” Ian murmurs, brushing his nose lightly under Mickey’s jaw, letting the sensation follow.

Ian is doing it again. He’s being soft with Mickey for no reason. Mickey shuts his eyes.

“Lip is right, you know. It’s a matter of time until Mandy figures it out,” Ian says after a moment of quiet. “She knows you moved in here. What are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” Mickey simply replies. “She won’t ever suspect I’m…” He trails off, fighting with himself. “…gay. Trust me. ‘s not how we grew up. Milkoviches aren’t gay.”

Ian backs up to look at Mickey, eyeing him slightly surprised. Mickey closes his eyes again, shutting him out.

“She thinks something happened between Terry and me again and that’s why I’m avoiding the house. It’s fine,” Mickey says.

“You never did tell me what happened on that run,” Ian replies, brushing the hair out of his face and casually fiddling around with it.

“Nothing.”

With his eyes closed he doesn’t see Ian’s face right now, but he can tell he is obviously pondering over his answer. His fingers don’t stop with their ministrations though.

“Then why did you decide to come here?”

Mickey doesn’t answer.

It’s quiet for a while and Mickey almost drifts off to sleep while Ian plays lazily around with their bond.

“Lip has applied to colleges. He wants to enroll next semester,” Ian says almost absentmindedly.

Mickey doesn’t really care, so he doesn’t say anything.

“If he goes to college, we could take his room,” Ian muses out loud.

Now that’s something Mickey finds interesting. He hums, acknowledging he’s heard Ian. The bond trickles languidly in place and Ian was right, Mickey thinks. He forgot how comfortable this sensation can feel.

“He asked me what my plans were for after graduation.”

Mickey suppresses a physical reaction, stays still.

“Asked me if I had thought of going to college too,” Ian says.

“What was your answer?”

“I didn’t have one. Hadn’t really thought about it,” Ian replies. “All my life I had a plan of what I wanted to do with myself. Then the bipolar came. And then Frank. Now I don’t know.”

“So… do you… want to go to college?” Mickey asks and opens his eyes to glance over to Ian. Ian meets his eyes, stilling in his ministrations.

“No, not really. Don’t think it’s for me. Besides, I can’t leave this house. Frank and Monica basically left us to raise ourselves. We always took care of each other. I can’t leave Fiona alone in this. Especially if Lip goes to college, there should be someone to help with Debbie, Carl, and Liam.”

“Debbie and Carl are old enough. Fiona should be fine with Liam,” Mickey simply says.

“We only consider Debbie and Carl old enough, because we’re living in this shithole and we have to act older than our age. They’re technically still kids,” Ian replies.

Mickey supposes there is some truth to that. Living on the South Side means having to survive. Everyone grows up a lot faster here.

“Anything else you want to do then?” Mickey asks. Ian glances to him, staring into his eyes for a while. His fingers start carding through his hair again.

“It’s strange to have no plan, but I feel like I’m okay with not having one and just see. For now I’m okay with just wanting to graduate,” he says, letting his thumb brush gently back and forth. “With you.”

Mickey stares into those soft, green eyes. Ian’s fingers are gently caressing through his hair and the bond is soothingly trickling into his body. His chest feels too full again. The way he feels around Ian is… nice. His touches are soft and warm. They make him feel good. And in this moment he comes to the realization that he wants to keep feeling this way as long as possible. He wants to be with Ian. He wants to be touched like this. And he wants to keep staring into those pretty green eyes.

He props himself up and leans over Ian, reaching over the edge of the bed for his backpack.

“What are you doing?” Ian asks, holding him steady.

Mickey fishes something out of his bag and then leans back, dropping it onto Ian’s chest. Curiously, Ian takes the sheets of paper and takes a look.

“This is your…”

“Statistics test.”

“I thought you said Mrs. Daughenbough hadn’t graded it yet,” Ian says confused and then flips through the test. When he reaches the last page, he snaps his head to Mickey.

“Got an A-,” Mickey says. “Means if I don’t screw up the final exams, I should be able to graduate.”

Ian’s eyes flicker between looking at the test score and Mickey, absolutely stunned.

“This is- This is absolutely amazing, Mickey! Why didn’t you say anything?” Ian asks, completely astounded.

Mickey always believed that nothing good ever happened around here. Until he met Ian. And now he has a room he calls home. A family by extension. A best friend. A soulmate. A boyfriend. He feels free. He feels happy. And he wants to hold onto this as long as he can.

_Good things will happen._

The words of that old grandma from the bus station are ringing through his ears and it seems like a lifetime ago he heard her say that to him.

“Didn’t really know how I felt about all that. Mrs. Daughenbough actually pitched the possibility of college to me after class,” Mickey says, shrugging. She said she would write him a recommendation letter. “I’m never going to college, just to be clear, but I might make it to graduation with you.”

Ian lets out a breathless chuckle as he stares at him, looking absolutely happy. Mickey bites his lip at the realization how happy it makes him seeing him like that in turn. Ian lets go of the test, cups his face with both hands, and kisses him. It’s an excited and sweet kiss. Something Mickey would usually pretend not to like, but he’s fucking done with that now. He wants what he wants. And right now he wants to kiss Ian, simply because it makes him feel really, really good.

Mickey reaches out with his own hands, cupping Ian’s face, and he kisses him back. He is eager, but not because this kiss is leading up to sex. He slips his tongue into Ian’s mouth, but not because it’s riling them up. This kiss has no purpose except that he wants to connect with Ian in yet another way.

Ian slings his arm around Mickey’s waist and then pushes them down onto the mattress. They keep on kissing and Mickey is actively feeding Ian’s enthusiasm with his own. And they just lie there, Ian on top of him, pressing their lips against each other and licking into their mouths. Just making out. Mickey thinks it’s nice.

Sliding his hand under Mickey’s shirt, Ian kneads along his back until he lets his hand just rest there, connecting them through their bond. They’re still just kissing, but the joy of it is so palpable between the two, it’s like he’s on a high. Mickey brushes his thumb slowly back and forth over Ian’s cheek. Ian takes a moment to just bump their noses against each other and then he opens his eyes and stares at him. Mickey thought he would never want anyone to look at him like that. He thought he would never be able to tolerate anyone to look at him like that. Mickey cups Ian’s face and lets his gaze flicker between Ian’s eyes. He thinks he doesn’t ever not want to be looked at like that by Ian. He tilts his head to give Ian a soft, short kiss. He brushes his hand over the side of Ian’s head and then cards his fingers into his hair. This time he manipulates the bond, lets it blanket Ian. Feeds the feeling of _them_ to Ian. Lets his soul return where it belongs. Lets it reconnect.

When Ian drops his forehead to Mickey’s, closes his eyes, and inhales shakily, Mickey just pats his head a couple of times and then slips his fingers into his hair again, settling there. He tucks lightly to have him look at him.

“Kiss me.”

Staring just a moment longer at Mickey, Ian eventually leans down and complies. He kisses him long and deep. Ian’s kiss is longing, hungry, and yet absolutely tender. When their lips part, Ian tilts Mickey’s head and starts leaving soft, little kisses from his chin down his throat. The bond trickles softly along and Mickey shivers from the sensation. Ian licks along the skin, presses his lips against it, and sucks. It’s soft and warm and gentle. And Mickey tightens his grip slightly, pushing Ian’s face closer. This weird full sensation in his chest doesn’t feel so terrifying anymore when he stops denying its right to exist. He cards his fingers through Ian’s hair as the latter starts nibbling on his skin. Ian switches back between kissing and licking, leaving, what Mickey knows will become, tiny little marks. And when he moves further down, he leans back on Mickey’s thighs and grips the hem of Mickey’s shirt. Mickey sits up and lets him strip it off him. And while Ian is sitting in his lap, he does the same with his shirt. He leans up toward Ian and this time he is the one kissing his neck. He tastes his skin, licks and sucks on it. His arms come around Ian’s back and he presses them together.

He wants to feel more. He wants to connect deeper. Brushing his palm slowly over Ian’s back, he makes their connection hum. He feels Ian’s fingers squeeze the nape of his neck in response and so he does the same thing where his other hand brushes over Ian’s side. The tingling sensation follows like a magnet, chasing the gentle call to meld. He kisses up Ian’s chest and with every kiss he lets the connection actively trickle into Ian like a wave.

Mouthing at the little dip between Ian’s clavicles he takes a moment to taste the pale skin and before he knows it he is kissing, licking, and sucking the tender spot, letting go with a content hum and a little bite. The thought of leaving his own marks on Ian is surprisingly exhilarating. To see his own personal mark among the many tiny freckles he loves to stare at, knowing that he left it there, it’s like Ian is going to carry a part of tonight with him in the following days and for some reason that visual makes his cheeks blaze with heat.

Ian slides both hands into Mickey’s hair and grips, tilting his head so Mickey has to face him. He leans down and kisses him. And this time it’s heated, like Ian just can’t get enough of Mickey. Mickey tightens the embrace and just lets himself get kissed like Ian needs him. And whatever he needs Mickey just wants to give it to Ian. He slides his hand up to Ian’s head and pulls him into him, kissing him deeper.

Ian settles his weight on Mickey and pushes him backward. They keep on kissing, nibbling on their lips, licking into their mouths. As he brushes along Ian’s hip in a circular motion, Mickey lets the connection follow the pattern. Ian is usually the one playing around with their bond, but Mickey has paid enough attention during their sessions to know how to manipulate it to his will. Actively letting them connect, it draws from something so deep. It’s like reaching into Ian and weaving together. The place they create when they touch is a place of belonging. It’s a place that is only theirs. It’s like their own private world. Allowing himself to get lost in it just wipes his mind of any unnecessary thoughts. He’s flying free and it’s absolutely intoxicating.

Ian has started moving his mouth along his neck down to his chest, leaving kisses and little bites. He keeps kissing the skin an inch under his left clavicle. Licks and sucks and it feels like Ian is imprinting himself into his skin. Ian wanders down, leaves kisses along his chest and stomach until he reaches the waistband of his pants and looks up to meet Mickey’s eyes. Mickey licks his lips.

They make quick work of their remaining clothes and then Ian slips between Mickey’s legs, strokes his dick a few times with lube, and then enters him. After he’s bottomed out, Ian blankets him and wraps his arms around Mickey’s back. Mickey has got one leg held open by Ian’s arm and the other propped up on his shoulder, allowing Ian to push deep inside. Getting used to the stretch, Mickey slides his hands over Ian’s hips to his ass and pulls him deeper. Mickey doesn’t think he will ever not relish in the feeling of Ian burying himself inside him. He lets out a deep satisfied exhale.

When Ian moves, he starts a languid pace, rocking into him. Even though they have done this dozens of times by now, it feels different somehow. It feels like more. He breathes shakily as he glances up to Ian. Ian seems to find the entire experience similar going by the way he looks at him. They keep staring at each other and Mickey feels the heat creep up his neck and cheeks. Ian just stops for a moment and leans down to kiss him again as if the need was too overwhelming and he could not _not_ kiss him. Mickey kisses him back as he reaches for him with both hands to cup his head. He’s never felt like this in his life and while it’s bordering on overwhelming, he just wants to give in to this feeling. He wants to let go. One last time, completely. He wants to let go and see what happens. And so he returns Ian’s kiss eagerly, presses himself against him, and then he just connects them, letting their bond course through their whole bodies. The bond spreads, rushing in a tingling sensation beneath their overheated skin. More and more. Until he hits that point where they’ve entirely come together and it just steals his breath. It feels like he completely let himself fall and now he’s floating weightless. He lets out a small overwhelmed gasp. When he opens his eyes he sees Ian’s eyes tightly squeezed shut as he drops his forehead against Mickey’s.

“Mick…” He whispers and bites his lip.

While they’ve done this numerous times by now, it’s still the fucking weirdest feeling he’s ever felt. How can something so comforting exist? Mickey allows himself to drown in it. He’s never felt this level of peace and warmth and trust. He doesn’t think anyone has. And tonight they’ve reached new heights. They have connected before just like this and yet never on this level of intensity. This time, lying under Ian, feeling his slick skin brush against his, feeling him thrust gently into him, feeling his eyes linger softly on him… He truly doesn’t know anymore where he begins and Ian ends. This special feeling that boils down to just them.

Ian exhales shakily and watches him as if he can’t believe what they’re feeling right now. It’s overwhelming, Mickey gets it. He swallows. He’s about to pull back their bond, but Ian holds onto it tightly. He keeps it in place and lets it bristle under his control. Then he starts thrusting into him again and all the different sensations are mixing and adding up. Keeps on just pouring more and more into a drum that’s already overflowing. And with one last helpless look shared between the two Mickey comes at the same time he feels Ian come inside him as well. He doesn’t even make a sound, it’s just so fucking intense.

The moment they’ve both finished riding that wave Mickey snaps the connection back, unable to withstand the intensity a second longer. Ian collapses on him and they breathe like they’ve just ran a marathon. Ian is heavy, but Mickey has no strength to pull himself out from under him. His limbs are spread out from where he had fallen off Ian after he came, his right leg even dangling from the bed.

Eventually Ian manages to roll himself off and is now squeezed beside Mickey and the wall, staring at him from the side. Mickey turns his head, meets his eyes, and swallows nervously. He doesn’t know what just happened. The desire to connect with Ian just overcame him and he just let go. His heart is thumping a mile a minute. He can’t believe he did what he did. Reaching out to Ian like that during sex, he doesn’t know what he was thinking. He just _wanted_ again. Utterly confused and anxious Mickey’s eyes flicker over Ian’s face, watching him for any clues as to what he’s thinking. Ian seems as taken aback by all this as Mickey.

They keep staring at each other for what feels like an unbearable eternity until Mickey can’t anymore and averts his eyes. It’s so quiet between them; Ian isn’t saying a single word and Mickey doesn’t know how to interpret that. But before he can completely freak out, he feels Ian’s hand reach for his, clasping them together. He tightens his hold and waits for Mickey’s reaction.

Mickey can’t look at him. He can’t say anything. All he can do is squeeze back the soft warm hand holding his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was one of the hardest chapters to edit. I hope I did it justice. Let me know what you thought!
> 
> One more to go! Fair warning the last chapter needs the most editing, so I'm not too sure when I'll have it ready. tl;dr I'm also working on the Gallavich Big Bang currently. Excited to share that one soon!
> 
> My tumblr: https://annansmith.tumblr.com


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